


Low Down the Sky

by inevitablethief



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Western, American Civil War, Amputation, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2017, F/M, Gun Violence, M/M, Madame Ellen, Minor Character Death, Multi, Period-Typical Racism, Prostitute Donna, Prostitute Jo, Prostitute Meg, Prostitution, Threesome - F/M/M, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-31 02:22:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 65,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12666336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inevitablethief/pseuds/inevitablethief
Summary: It was under canon fire and the smoke of gunpowder that Dean and Cas first met while serving in the Union Army during the American Civil War.  After surviving harrowing battles together, they were ripped apart by an unfair court-martial.  It’s now 1871 and Dean hasn’t heard from Cas in 6 years, when an unexpected letter arrives.  Cas is alive and well and has just taken the job of Marshal in the newly established town of Perdition, Kansas, on the lawless western frontier.  He invites Dean to be his deputy.Anxious to see Cas again, Dean, with his brother Sam, leaves behind farm life in Lawrence to be a lawman in the Wild West.  Expecting to see the upstanding Army Captain he once loved, Dean is shocked and heartbroken when he finds Cas a former gunslinger who spends his time in the arms of Meg, a prostitute at Ellen’s brothel.The three lawmen face a ruthless gang of outlaws, led by Lucifer, who has deep connections to Sam’s troubled past and a vendetta against him that puts them all in danger.





	1. The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so glad to finally be posting my entry for the 2017 DCBB! Thank you to the mods for taking on such a mammoth task. Special thanks have to go out to my extraordinary beta, Ionian24, without whom this fic would not have been possible. I'm unbelievably lucky to have someone in my life who is not only a gifted and dedicated editor and sounding board, always willing to help me through a problematic part, but is also the best friend and sister I could ask for. I am indebted to her for her tireless work helping me get this story finished and shaped into something I could be proud of.
> 
> The artwork you'll see here was done by Busy Squirrel, and it is beautiful and more than I could have dreamed of. Check out the [masterpost](https://bs-acorns.tumblr.com/post/167248485548/title-low-down-the-sky-author-inevitablethief), and shower it in all the praise it deserves.
> 
> And now for a few content notes. This story takes place in the 1870's with flashbacks to the American Civil War and the conflicts in Kansas before and during. Therefore, it deals with some pretty sensitive topics like slavery and racism. I, as a person, obviously condemn all forms of racism and white supremacy, but sometimes we have to write characters that go against our personal beliefs. Slavery is never normalized or glamorized in this story; the people who believe in it are villains and are portrayed as such. Still, if you are easily triggered by this content, you will want to read with caution.
> 
> The last chapter is a glossary and a brief history of the US Civil War. If you come across a word that you don't understand, head there (if you don't find the word there, leave a comment on that chapter and I'll add it). This story does assume a certain familiarity of the Civil War; if you don't know anything, then I'd head to Chapter 11 first.

**Lawrence, Kansas**

_March 13, 1871_

_Dear Dean,_

_I hope this correspondence finds you in good health and favor. It has been many years since last we met, and my fortunes have recovered greatly. My improved situation comes with an offer for you. The Sheriff of Dabb county has seen fit to appoint me town Marshal of Perdition, Kansas on the western frontier. It is a lawless town, home to outlaws, gunfighters, and cowboys. It has not, as yet, been inviting to honorable men, but I have hope to change that. It has fallen on me to populate a police force for the town, and I am seeking honest, hardworking men to be deputized as my assistants. I hold you in great respect and admiration, as a soldier, as a friend, and as a man. The pay is thirteen dollars per month, plus a share in bounties and fees._

_If this letter is not welcome, please disregard its contents and continue on as you were. If the opportunity I have presented, however, interests you, then I look forward to once again serving with you. ___

_C.J. Milton_

Dean read through the unexpected letter again, clutching the cheap paper covered in the familiar scrawl. 

“Dean, are you well, son?” the postmaster asked.

“Yes,” Dean lied. He should have waited until he got back to the farm to read the letter, but the mysterious _Hays City_ postmark had been too curious to resist. He hadn’t meant to even go to the post office, ‘cept Sammy was expectin’ a new book he’d ordered from back East and Dean had offered to pick it up. “Just got a bit of surprising news is all.”

“Hope it’s good,” the postmaster replied distractedly. Another customer was sending a letter to Philadelphia and needed a stamp.

“I don’t know,” Dean mumbled as he walked out onto the street, leaving Sam’s expected package behind. He needed to buy seed, needed to see about getting the hitch on the plow replaced before next week, needed to do anything other than focus on the damned letter.

He folded the paper up and tucked it in his coat pocket, next to his heart where it belonged.

All these years, he’d thought Cas was dead.

* * *

_**Somewhere near Petersburg, Virginia, January 1865** _

_“I’m going to be sent North tomorrow. They’re going to court-martial me,” Cas said._

_“You’re an officer,” Dean argued. “They’ll only demote you.”_

_Cas laughed ruefully, running a hand through his hair. Dean understood; either way, Cas was leaving them—leaving him._

_“But Cap’n,” Garth said. “Major Ishim had it comin’.”  
They’d been sieging Petersburg for months, taking on the rebels whenever the commanders thought they could cut off a supply line. All the men were twitchy and easy to anger; any logical man would have thought that was all that had provoked Cas. Dean, of course, knew differently._

_“The brigadier general does not think that significant information. I am depending on you to see your men through the transition.” He addressed the information to the loyal sergeants in the tent, but Dean felt like he was only talking to him. “You are good soldiers, good men, and it’s been an honor to serve with you. We have been forged in fire and blood together, and I shall never forget you or the sacrifices of our unit.”_

_Dean wanted to reach out to him, to smooth his wild hair and comfort him. He kept his hands balled up in fists to keep from touching the captain._

_“You’re the best, captain,” the men offered, clapping hands on Cas’s back one after the other before being dismissed into the cold night. Dean lingered behind, leaving only the two of them in the tent._

_“You’re an idiot,” he sneered._

_“I’d do it again,” Cas growled. “I wish I’d killed the bastard.”_

_“They’d put you to the firing squad for sure if you’d done that,” Dean reminded him. Cas chuckled darkly._

_Cas’s cabinmate was in the infirmary, so he had the cabin to himself. Despite the accusations, he wouldn’t lose the benefits of being a captain until he was tried the next day. His few private effects had already been packed up in anticipation of a court-martial, but his cot was still made. Dean hazarded a glance at it, caught by his superior officer._

_“You should get out of here,” Cas warned. “You’ll only make things worse.”_

_Dean gave his friend a squeeze on his upper arm, then he followed his fellow sergeants into the lonely darkness._

* * *

**Lawrence, Kansas, March 1871**

Word had gotten back within the month that Castiel had been court-martialed, sent away to serve out his sentence doing hard labor. Dean liked to imagine he’d come back to Petersburg to build another one of the large, dirt forts the men camped around, but he never did. As far as Dean had known, Cas had never returned from wherever the brass had sent him. A letter to his family in Connecticut had been no help. The last time a Milton had written him, it was Anna telling him that she hadn’t heard from Castiel since before the war ended. All these six long years, Dean had only imagined Cas had gotten himself killed, doing the same sort of foolish and brave things he’d been court-martialed for in the beginning or wasted away doing hard labor.

The sun was bright in Dean’s eyes as he crossed the street to the Hardware and Ammunition store to see about his plow. 

“Mornin’, Dean,” Jody Mills said as he stepped into the cool darkness of the store. She’d kept the store running after the death of her husband and their young son years earlier.

“Hey, Jody,” Dean smiled. “I need a new hitch for the plow.”

“Sure thing.” She pulled a catalog from underneath the counter. “You run one horse or two?”

“One,” Dean grimaced. 

“Sure,” Jody agreed amiably. She pointed to a spot in the catalog and showed it to Dean. “This the one you need?”

“Yep,” Dean answered, his stomach churning at the price.

“Only thing is Dean, you’re going to have to pay cash.” She said it gently, like she knew the farm was in trouble. Of course, she knew the farm was in trouble. Not a farmer in Kansas could afford to plant more than a third of his one hundred sixty acres. 

“The harvest wasn’t quite what I expected last year, Jody. I hardly got enough for forty acres of seed.”

Jody’s face turned stern but kind, and Dean was reminded of his mother. “I haven’t said anything about your account, Dean, but you haven’t paid me since last year, and I can’t afford to eat the cost of the new hitch, too.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Dean replied sheepishly. “Times are hard.”

The letter in Dean’s pocket seemed to burn like someone had lit a fire in his chest. As much as Dean wanted Cas’s letter to be something more dear, it was, after all, a job offer. One hundred and fifty a year was plenty to live off of, and all the bounties and such could amount to thousands of dollars. If he sold the farm, there’d be enough money for a house in town for his ma and Sam, and they wouldn’t be tied to his father’s dead-end dream any longer. The lure of action was too much to resist. After all, Dean had been battle-tested and come out kicking; he could handle himself on the lawless frontier.

“Actually,” he said, his mind racing with the possibilities. “I’ll wait on the hitch. I’d like a revolver—pearl handled.”

* * *

Dean’s ma paced in front of the stove. “You’re going to sell the farm?”

Dean nodded. “I listed it at the land office already. We’ll get a fair dollar for it.”

“And where am I supposed to live?” his ma asked pointedly.

“We have last year’s harvest in the bank, and, with the money from the sale, you’ll be able to move into town, buy a nice house, room for both of you.”

Sam was seated in the old rocking chair that had come west with their parents fifteen years earlier. His young face was set in a frown. “While you chase outlaws?”

“I’ve been offered a position as a deputy town marshal, yes,” Dean explained. “My old captain is Marshal, and he asked for me specifically. It’s a good job.”

“That’ll get you killed,” his ma argued.

“I fought a war, Ma. Four years and they couldn’t get me; two of those years under Cap’n Milton. I know you worry, but you don’t need to.”

His ma let out an annoyed huff and went to stir the stew she was making for their supper. Dean knew they thought it was mad to leave his life behind to head off for parts unknown and dangerous, but he’d never been one to think long about these sorts of things. When his grandfather had fallen ill, Dean had gone to spend the winter helping to run his bookshop in Boston. The winter turned into spring, and, when war broke out, Dean enlisted right then and there. Another spur of the moment decision had put him in Cas’s command in the first place, and that was something he couldn’t make himself regret even after everything that had happened.

“Or you could finally settle down here; marry Lisa,” his ma offered. “She’s sweet on you.”

“I don’t want to be a farmer, Ma!” Dean shouted. “I never did.”

“What does that matter? I didn’t want to be a farmer’s wife, myself. Your father had other dreams; he wanted to work the land. You loved your father, too, and you won’t throw away his legacy.”

“It’s not a legacy; it’s a burden.”

A quick slap across his face silenced him, as his mother’s hand made contact with his cheek. “Don’t you talk about your father that way,” she commanded.

“Pa’s dead. I’m the man of the house,” Dean argued. His face stung where she’d hit him, but she couldn’t change his resolve.

Cas had come back from the dead, and Dean wasn’t going to leave him waiting.

* * *

Dean stared at the sun setting over the empty fields. Somewhere out there was his future; he could feel it. It wasn’t in the fallow fields his pa had worked for nearly ten years until he died. The hard work would have killed him eventually, if the rebel bastards hadn’t done it first.

“You hate it here,” Sam said, standing behind Dean on the porch.

“Yep,” Dean grunted. “You always did, too.”

Sam shrugged and sat down in the open chair. “I suppose. I never wanted to be a farmer, either. I made enough mistakes, though, because of it, don’t you think?”

“You’re happy as a banker, then?”

“I’m not a banker, Dean; I’m an apprentice clerk.”

“Is it as borin’ as it sounds?”

“Yes,” Sam admitted with a small smile.

The dogs in the yard circled around, barking and nipping at each other in a game only they knew. They disrupted a flock of birds, which took off into the sky, silhouetted against the setting sun. They watched in silence until the sky had darkened and the lightnin’ bugs came out.

“I should come with you,” Sam said suddenly. In the darkness, Dean couldn’t see his face, but he sounded serious.

“I don’t need mindin’, Sammy.”

Sam let out a huff of laughter. “I know, Dean. If the frontier is that rough, maybe your old captain needs another deputy.”

“Why?” Dean asked. It wasn’t as though he distrusted Sam, so much as he had a lot of ideas about what his life would be like in Perdition, and it did not include his little brother.

“I’ve done a lot of bad, Dean. I know that; you know that. I’m lucky I’m not in prison.”

“You made up for all that,” Dean argued. 

“People here still remember what I did. Mrs. Peterson turned right around and left the bank when she saw me last week.”

“Mrs. Peterson needs to learn not to throw stones when she lives in a glass house,” Dean huffed. “You seen the way she treats that girl of hers?”

“A fresh start would be good for me.” Sam lit the oil lamp on the table, so Dean could make out his determined expression even in the dim light.

“What about ma?”

“You were away at war for years, Dean. I ran away, Pa was killed, and Ma survived it all. She’s made of iron. Unless you don’t want me to come along?”

“Why wouldn’t I...?” Dean began. Sam couldn’t know; Dean had never told a soul. He’d never even mentioned Cas before, if only because it had been too painful to bring up old memories. It was selfish to want Cas to himself; there was a whole town Dean was going to have to share him with. “’Course not. I’ll…uh…I’ll ask Cas when I write him to accept.”

* * *

_Dear Cas,_

_I thought you were dead. Why didn’t you write to me earlier? I was easy to find. I went home soon as my time was up, and I’ve been here since._

Dean crossed out his words and frowned at the paper. It wouldn’t do to talk to Cas that way. Whatever reasons he had for not communicating with Dean in six years, he was done with them now.

Dean had so many questions for Cas, but a letter wasn’t any place to ask them, especially not when Dean was going to be near Cas again after all these long years. They’d last seen each other as soldiers, but they were going to be lawmen together, which made them practically civilians. His hand shook as he tried again.

_Dear Cas,_

_I’d be a fool not to accept your offer. I ain’t a fool, so I accept._

_You may remember me talking of my brother, Sam. If you’re in need of another deputy, my brother would be interested in the post. He’s a smart, honest, hardworking man, and a good shot; whatever problems he had are in the past. You couldn’t find a better candidate in the entire state of Kansas. ‘Cept me, of course._

_Dean Winchester_

_P.S. It’s good to hear from you. It has been a long time, and I was sure something bad had befallen you._


	2. Check Your Guns

_**Falmouth, Virginia, December 25, 1862** _

_Castiel could hear the sounds of arguing coming from the other side of the camp. It was too far away to be one of his men; too far away to be anyone he knew, in fact. It would have gone unnoticed, another skirmish between soldiers who had too much time on their hands in camp, who missed their families on this holy day. The arguing moved closer, however, and Castiel could make out the two men as they made their way towards him._

_One of the men was extremely tall, likely taller even than Castiel, who towered over most of his men. The other had a broad Boston accent, and Castiel thought they must be from a Massachusetts unit._

_“You read my letters,” the tall man accused angrily. His accent was softer, much like his handsome face with its fine features._

_“I thought they’d be from a sweetheart, not your ma. I don’t care much about how your father’s wheat harvest is doin’ without you. Am pretty curious about your reb brother, though,” the other man sneered._

_“Half the men here likely have a reb brother,” the tall man responded with a similar sneer. Castiel could see him flinch, however. “But my brother ain’t a rebel. He ran away. My ma was fearin’ the worst in that letter.”_

_Castiel watched the scene with curiosity. In his two Connecticut regiments, no one had a rebel brother. His own family were staunch Methodist abolitionists, and he was the first member to set foot below the Mason-Dixon line. He knew that in many states, such as Maryland, families could be divided in their loyalties, but he didn’t anticipate them coming from Boston._

_“My ma and pa are abolitionists,” the tall one explained. The two men both wore corporal stripes on their uniforms. “They couldn’t raise a reb if they tried.”_

_“You are so full of blather,” the other corporal groused._

_“You,” the tall corporal shouted. It took a moment for Castiel to realize he was being addressed; he felt his face color in embarrassment. “What regiment is this?” He gestured to the scattered remains of Castiel’s unit behind him._

_“14th Connecticut Infantry,” Castiel answered proudly. “II Corps, Third Division.”_

_The man let out a long whistle. “You boys were slaughtered at Fredericksburg.”_

_“Yes,” Castiel admitted, fingering the edges of the sling on his arm. He’d been shot in the arm twice at the aforementioned battle; he was fortunate he hadn’t lost it. “We saw many casualties.”_

_“’Bet you’re short on men, then, Lieutenant.”_

_Castiel frowned at the man; he was unused to such probing questions from a fellow soldier. “Two hundred strong.” Out of more than a thousand men, they were left with less than a quarter after heavy losses at Antietam and Fredericksburg._

_“Where’s your commander?” the corporal asked._

_“Taken down in battle.”_

_“Well, Lieutenant”—the man’s voice was light and sing-song. “I reckon you could afford to take on another man.”_

_“Excuse me?”_

_The other corporal let out a long guffaw, slapping his leg as if the situation was the funniest thing he’d seen in a long time. “Winchester”—he jutted out a thumb towards the other corporal—“here is sore that I read his ma’s letters.”_

_“Does your unit steal from your brothers-in-arms?” Winchester asked, a serious expression on his handsome face. The other corporal wandered away at this point, laughing quietly to himself._

_Castiel was affronted. He’d never allow one of his men to behave dishonorably. “No.”_

_“Then I’m in. Sign me up!”_

_“It doesn’t work that way, Corporal. Who are you with?”_

_“5th Mass. Good men when they’re not lousy thieves.”_

_Castiel allowed himself a small smile at the charming corporal. “How do you have a rebel brother in Massachusetts?” Castiel asked._

_Winchester seemed as surprised as he was embarrassed. “You heard that? Massachusetts by way of Kansas. Ma and pa thought they’d help make sure Kansas became a free state, and pa always wanted to be a farmer. I was with my Grandfather in Boston when war broke out. My brother ain’t a reb, though.”_

_“I’m sure,” Castiel said dryly._

_“Talk to your captain,” Winchester insisted. “Tell him you’ve got an eager man here who wants to sign up.”_

_“You already have a regiment,” Castiel reminded him._

_“Sir, please. I’m on my knees here,” Winchester pleaded._

_“No, you’re not. You’re standing.”_

_Corporal Winchester erupted into gleeful laughter. “I like you, Lieutenant.”_

_Castiel knew then that this was a joke on his behalf. His men and the other officers liked him well, he thought. However, they always thought he was too serious, so perhaps they were having a laugh at his expense. “Go back to your unit, corporal.”_

_The corporal, instead of obeying Castiel’s order, advanced on him. “Please, Lieutenant. The men know my brother ran away to join the rebels. I can’t face them again. They’re all staunch Yankees. They don’t understand the pressure in Kansas. We’ve been fighting this war for eight years already. He’s just a kid.”_

_In the face of Winchester’s honesty, Castiel couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the man. Men skipped out to join another unit all the time, to join brothers and friends who enlisted at different times or in different places; Winchester’s plea was only unique in its officialness._

_“Get your things, Corporal. We have drills in an hour.”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

* * *

**Hays City, Kansas April 1871**

Hays City was what Perdition could expect to be in a few years. This was both good and bad, Cas figured, as Hays City had a railroad depot, booming businesses, post office, and the ability to buy anything you needed. Cas had been making the two-day long trek by wagon once a week for a month in preparation for the arrival of his two new deputies, so he knew how useful that was. However, the town had a reputation for the kind of violence Perdition was only starting to experience. Sheriff Singer hoped he had nipped that in the bud by hiring Cas as town marshal to keep order.

He patted the rifle as he tucked it under the seat and covered it with a wool blanket. He knew better than to take a revolver into town, as that was just asking for trouble he was trying to stay away from, but he was a rifleman at heart, and he couldn’t be expected to travel without protection from wild animals and raiding parties. 

The train was due just after noon, and Castiel tugged his pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket to check. The waistcoat was new, ordered for this very occasion along with the rest of his suit, a brown sack coat and matching trousers; the girls at Ellen’s had laughed at his formal attire. Castiel had explained that he was meeting the new deputies and left it at that. The pocket watch, on the other hand, was one of the few items left over from his old life, as it had been his father’s before being his. His mother gave it to him when Cas left home to study theology at Wesleyan. The case was dented where it had been hit by shrapnel at Gettysburg. He closed his eyes against the memories of that battle, of Dean on the ground, of fire and smoke, of what had happened that day. He was probably a fool for offering the position to Dean, but so be it. He had settled down for the first time in a decade, and Dean was the one person he’d wanted by his side. 

Tying the horses up to the hitching post, Cas walked around the ticket office towards the platform to wait for the train. His senses prickled in anticipation. The conversations of others waiting for the train, the sounds of the ticket officer helping customers, even the clip clop of horses’ hooves were all amplified as the air became heavy with promise and the distant sound of a train whistle. Soon, the train was visible as it slowed down for the station, its chimney spouting smoke and steam into the air.

As the passengers disembarked, Castiel examined each one in hopes of seeing a familiar freckled face, a shock of golden brown hair, but each face was that of a stranger. Finally, after seemingly every passenger had left, and the railroad workers were unloading cargo and bags of mail, and getting ready to reload with new items, a very tall young man stepped down from the passenger car. He stepped out of the way, blinking into the midday sun, and revealed a ghost from Cas’s past. 

Dean’s handsome face spread into a bright grin as he saw Castiel. “Hey, Captain.”

“Hello, Dean.”

* * *

Dean couldn’t do it; he couldn’t force himself to step onto the platform and see Cas for the first time in so many years. Sam was eager to get off the train, stretch his absurdly long legs after the interminable day. He frowned at Dean as he refused to stand up, holding his guitar in front of him like armor.

“If it doesn’t work out, we’ll just return to Lawrence.”

“Sure, Sammy,” Dean replied testily. “I ain’t got an option.”

“You can go back home and live with Ma in town, Dean. This isn’t the end of the line,” Sam said, taking Dean’s words for fear about the job rather than the man they were going to work for.

Finally, the conductor approached them with a disapproving frown. Sam grabbed their knapsacks and moved to the stairs, so Dean had no choice but to follow.

Holding his breath, he stepped down the stairs, only to find, upon seeing Cas again, that he didn’t have any breath left to hold. Cas had always kept a close shave during their time in the war, being one of the few men in their regiment to prefer no facial hair. Now, he had a few days growth, which gave him a rough look that suited him. The years had been good to him; he was broader than when Dean had last seen him, though Dean supposed they’d all been starving towards the end of the war, when supplies had been scarce. His eyes were shaded under a broad hat, but, even so, they were the same deep sparkling blue that they’d always been. He was more handsome than any man Dean had ever seen, and Dean couldn’t help the smile as he greeted his old friend.

“Hello, Dean.” That voice was still as deep and rumbly as canonfire, and it still gave Dean chills.

“This is my brother Sam. Sam this is Cas Milton.”

“Good to meet you,” Cas said, holding out his hand for a firm handshake. His hands were strong and calloused; Dean was sure he’d find himself dreaming about them.

“I’ve never met anyone who served with Dean,” Sam said. “Hope he didn’t give you too much trouble.”

“He was an exemplary soldier and man,” Cas said with complete sincerity. Dean’s cheeks turned red at the complement, but he hoped the shadow of his hat hid it. “Let’s get your luggage. I’d like to set out immediately, if that’s alright. We’ll camp on the road tonight, then hopefully make it to Bobby’s homestead by nightfall tomorrow and get into town the next morning.”

Sam gulped uneasily, but Dean wasn’t daunted. Sam and their ma had stayed behind in Massachusetts for more than a year, but Dean, on the cusp of manhood at thirteen, had come out to Lawrence to join his pa. Being two days ride from a major town was no problem for him. Camping with Cas, however, was causing his palms to sweat. 

The porters had finished unloading everyone’s trunks, and there was a line of men in fine frock coats and dusty work clothes the same, waiting for their luggage. Dean indicated his and Sam’s on the pile, and Cas hoisted Dean’s onto his shoulder in an impressive feat of strength. Sam and Dean each took a handle of Sam’s and followed Cas off the train platform.

Cas dropped the trunk in the bed of a wagon, stepping aside afterwards to let Sam and Dean do the same, along with their knapsacks. There were already a few things in the bed: a dutch oven, a coffee pot, a pile of blankets and bed rolls, and other supplies they’d need for a night on the trail.

After stowing their trunks, Castiel said that they needed to pick up food for the trip back. Dean noticed he was collecting far more food and sundries than they’d need for a two day trip. “Marv at the General Store has a shipment every two weeks—picked it up for him last time I was in Hays—but he charges a pretty penny for the trouble.”

Dean watched as Cas filled a little sack with sweets from glass jars just like they had back in Lawrence: gum drops, hoarhound, and butterscotch. When Cas saw him watching, a flush deepened his sun-browned cheeks. 

Soon, they exited the shop with two wooden crates full of food; beans, salt pork and bacon, bicarbonate of soda, a few onions, some tins of crackers and lard, canned milk, coffee, sugar, wheat flour, coffee, cornmeal, molasses, and the little sack of sweets that had embarrassed Cas.

As they crossed the street, Cas tensed suddenly. He handed the crate he’d been carrying to Sam, his hand going to his waist as if he was looking for his gun, only to find nothing. Dean thought of the revolver hidden in his knapsack back at the wagon.

Dean soon realized why, as a man approached them. He had a pinched, unpleasant, but young face. “Milton,” he greeted. “I heard about you.”

“I’m sure you have,” Cas answered. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Ephraim,” the young man proclaimed with a smug sneer. “You don’t look so tough. Bet I’m a better shot.” How he came to that conclusion, Dean didn’t know, but he was probably wrong, if Dean remembered properly. Cas had been the best shot in the whole of the Union Army.

“I don’t want trouble,” Cas drawled. “I’m a lawman, now, I just want to help keep the peace.” He moved aside his coat, showing his left breast, where a shiny badge was pinned to his waistcoat.

“You turn yellow?”

Cas seemed to puff up himself. “I’m not armed, Ephraim. I’m not about to flaunt the laws of this town.”

“You are yellow,” Ephraim sneered. “The great Cas Milton is just a worthless, yellow-bellied chicken.”

It happened in a heartbeat. One second Cas was standing next to Dean, listening to this kid insult him, and the next he had the boy in a chokehold with a knife to his throat. The people around them didn’t even seem to notice. 

“Call me a chicken again,” Cas muttered. “You come into Perdition sometime and you’ll learn to dance, got that, kid?”

“Yes, sir,” Ephraim answered shakily.

Cas released him and continued walking towards the wagon as if nothing had happened. Dean couldn’t help but glance where they’d left the boy gasping and heaving. 

“I’ve got buffalo jerky and yesterday’s biscuits for supper. We’ll have to eat on the trail if we want to make good time.” 

“Sure,” Dean and Sam both answered shakily. Dean had watched Cas shoot a confederate soldier at five paces and dodge a bayonet thrust at his chest, but that had been war. The difference between Lawrence and the west of Kansas was like the difference between Grandpa Winchester’s bookstore in Boston and marching across the cornfield at Antietam.

When they got to the wagon, they stowed the boxes in the back with the rest of their things. Cas rummaged through the boxes, however, tucking the bag of sweets into his own knapsack and ripping open the sack of beans. He measured out a few cupfuls of the dried beans and poured them into the dutch oven. He dug through the back of the wagon again, finding a couple canteens, handing them and a larger waterskin to Sam. “There’s a pump on the other side of that building, fill these up for me?”

“Sure, Cas,” Sam said, dodging a wagon as he crossed the road.

Cas leaned against the wagon, looking long and lean in the midday sun. He pushed the brim of his hat so that it hung low on his forehead. “You aren’t leaving behind a wife, I take it?”

“No,” Dean answered, surprised that Cas even thought so. “You got a wife in Perdition?”

Cas let out a dry laugh. “There ain’t a respectable woman in Perdition, ‘cept the Widow Richardson.”

“O.K.,” Dean huffed, feeling a pleased warmth spread through his chest.

That was enough of that, as Sam returned with the full canteens. Cas dropped the canteens in the wagon bed, but poured water from the waterskin into the pot to soak the beans. He put the lid back on the pot and nestled it safely in the wagon bed, and they piled into the wagon.

* * *

The sun was very near setting, but they were still an hour away from where Cas had planned on camping. Once darkness fell, they’d be at danger from wild animals or raiding parties; even trying to navigate by lantern, they’d be at risk of losing their way. This was still unknown territory to all but the Indians, buffalo hunters, and the men who drove cattle through on their way to Hays City or Ellsworth. It would be an unfortunate introduction to the frontier for the Winchesters to be shot at, robbed, or eaten. 

Dean was gnawing on a piece of buffalo jerky next to Cas on the seat. His brother was sprawled in the back, after having walked beside the wagon the last three miles for the horse’s sake. His large frame was intimidating, which was useful in their line of work, yet Castiel found him a calm, rational young man, far from the impetuous, easily misled boy Dean had described so many years before. Cas decided he liked Sam very much and that they could be great friends. Exactly as he and Dean would be.

“You’re staring at me again, Cas. You know how that gives me the creeps.”

“You were—“ Cas began, but he thought against pointing out that Dean had been doing the same thing all day. “Apologies,” he said instead. “It’s been many years, my friend; you have changed much.”

Dean laughed ruefully and took another bite of jerky, which Castiel had dried himself. He hadn’t shot the buffalo, however; it was payment for his last job. Dean was eating the last of it, but Cas thought it was worth the loss for the return of his old friend. 

“Are we going to make camp soon?” Dean asked, mouth full of jerky.

“There’s a good place to camp within an hour’s ride,” Cas answered. “Near the creek; the horses can drink to their content.”

“Oh,” Dean replied with obvious distress.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, I…” Dean uttered.

“He’s hungry,” Sam offered from the bed of the wagon.

In the waning sunlight, Dean’s cheeks obviously colored. 

“We used to march for days on end, with nothing but hard tack to break our teeth on,” Cas scolded.

“So I’ve grown soft,” Dean grumbled sheepishly. “It’s been a long day.”

“We can stop here, rest the horses, and make coffee.” Cas offered, indulging his old friend.

Cas set to building a small fire, and let Dean and Sam get the coffee ready to boil. Dried cattle dung stunk like the shit it was, but wood was in short supply on the frontier. The brothers brought the kettle over once Cas had a roaring fire going. Dean had grabbed the last of the day-old biscuits and sat next to Cas. 

“What does this remind you of?” he asked.

“That march through Virginia. The Rappahannock to the Rapidan.” Castiel remembered it well.

“Five days of marching,” Dean sighed.

“Rudy, Ash, and Daniel took to starting a pot of coffee every time we stopped.”

Castiel laughed at the memory. “When I had to make them throw it out that one time, I thought they were going to shoot me.”

“I think they were.”

“What happened to them?” Sam asked, having joined them by the fire.

“Ash was killed at Spotsylvania,” Dean said. “Daniel was sent home after being wounded at the failure that was Morton’s Ford.” They both let out a hiss of anger at the offensive that had resulted in casualties of nearly half their men. Cas had a scar from a confederate bayonet to his side. “Rudy was killed at Dabney’s Mill—first casualty after we lost Cas.”

Castiel hadn’t known that. He’d likely been far away from the war by then, building a fort on the wild frontier. He spared a moment to mourn for another man lost to that war.

“Were you wounded?” Sam asked.

“You haven’t told him?” Cas asked, surprised that Dean hadn’t relayed Cas’s greatest failure.

The kettle of water chose that moment to boil. Sam didn’t push the subject once there was hot coffee to drink.

* * *

Dean couldn’t sleep, so he took first watch. They’d made camp by the creek like Cas had wanted, cooked up a pot of beans with the salt pork, and settled around the campfire for a meal together. It was a familiar scene, but under such different circumstances that it was as good as being a different life altogether. Cas had changed; Dean couldn’t put his finger on what, exactly, was different, but the years since they’d seen each other had transformed his old captain. The dark part of Dean’s mind wondered if that was his fault.

He thought of the young man who had challenged Cas in the street. Dean knew how it worked: you didn’t get appointed Town Marshal unless you had a reputation for being tougher than the criminals you’d be arresting. With that kid, though, Cas was acting as if he hadn’t been on the right side of the law until he took the job as marshal. That didn’t seem like Cas at all. Even after seeing some of the worst fighting in the war, Cas had never lost his faith in the cause. He’d rallied his men after crushing defeats and celebrated after hard won victories with the reminder that they were fighting to rebuild a great nation and to abolish that vile institution of slavery.

He kicked at the fire, stirring the embers. Someone stirred among the bedrolls, and Dean looked up from the rock he’d been sitting on.

“Hey,” Sam’s sleepy voice whispered. “You O.K.?”

“Go back to sleep, Sammy,” Dean ordered. “I still got another hour of watch time.”

“I don’t mind.” His tall form rose from where he and Cas had been sleeping by the wagon. He sat on the ground next to Dean. “This has got to be hard for you—seeing your old captain again.”

“Nah,” Dean lied. 

“Maybe you can talk about the war with him. I never saw the things you saw: Gettysburg, Spotsylvania, Antietam, fording a frozen river under enemy fire.”

“You were just burning down houses, raiding supply lines, and murdering jayhawkers in their homes with your bushwacker friends.”

“I never hurt anyone.”

“Yeah,” Dean scoffed.

“I knew you still hadn’t forgiven me,” Sam said, shaking his head and poking at what was left of the fire. “Get some sleep. I’m riding shotgun tomorrow, so you’re going to have to walk halfway.”

Dean could only shrug and head for the bedroll. Cas was still asleep, snoring peacefully in the night air. He rolled over at the sound of Dean’s footsteps, but didn’t wake up. The years seemed to slip away as Dean settled onto his bedroll near Cas, but the man next to him was a stranger. 

* * *

_**Somewhere in Virginia,August 10, 1863** _

_“They haven’t been through what we been through,” Ash lamented._

_“Yeah,” Garth chuckled, adjusting the bandage on his shoulder. “They ain’t dead.”_

_Dean drew another card and tossed it at Ash. “I wasn’t with you at Antietam.”_

_“But you were there,” Ash shrugged. “And you’ve been here ever since, right beside us at Cemetery Ridge chanting Fredericksburg and giving those rebs what for.” He dropped the cards in his hands to the ground. “I wanna see what you fellas got.”_

_Dean placed his cards in front of him. “I got nothing,” he laughed, stroking his neat beard. He already knew he wasn’t going to win anything with a pair of deuces, especially when Ash was some sort of genius at the game._

_“Hey Cap’n,” Garth called out. Dean whipped around his head to see which Captain had approached the group. Cas Milton was moving towards them at his normal brisk pace. He’d just shaved, his handsome face making him look younger than the new recruits Ash had been complaining about. “Can Dean deal you in?”_

_Cas shook his head once he reached the circle of men on the ground. “No, thank you. I’m just passing through.”_

_Cas was still standing behind him, but Dean could catch his eye if he tilted his head back and looked up. Not the subtlest position, but the beauty of Cas’s face in the mid-afternoon light was worth the risk._

_“One hand?” Dean asked._

_“I suppose,” Cas relented. “But I won’t take your money.”_

_“We’d be happy to take yours,” Ash said with a smirk._

_Cas sat down between Dean and Ash, bumping Dean’s arm as he settled on the ground. Dean could feel the warmth from his freshly pressed wool uniform even after he was no longer making contact._

_“With that face?” Dean joked, if only to distract himself from Castiel’s closeness. “He could bluff every time and no one would be the wiser.”_

_Dean dealt another hand, including Cas in the draw. He smelled like soap, and Dean had to fight the urge to press his face into the junction of Cas’s neck and shoulder and inhale ‘til he got his fill. Of course, if Cas had smelled like stale water and months of unwashed skin, Dean probably would have felt the same way._

_They all placed their bets. Despite his claimed disinterest in winning money from his men, Cas raised the bet two bits. This was especially odd as he folded at the next raise, effectively giving away his money. He caught Dean’s eye, and the twinkle in his own made Dean realize that he had raised the bet on purpose so he could give away his pay to men who might need it more._

_“What’s going on over there?” Cas asked, indicating with a nod a group of men who were converging about ten yards to their left._

_“Beats me,” Dean replied._

_“I’m going to beat you too,” Ash grinned. He called the hand and won again to no one’s surprise._

_As Ash collected his winnings, Castiel stood up to take his leave. “I want to see what the men are doing over there,” he explained._

_Dean gathered the cards and stood up as well. He could see the group forming better from the higher angle. “I don’t know, Captain, they look like recruits. You don’t want your loyal men thinking you’re making friends with the fresh meat.”_

_“All men under my command are my men,” Cas intoned. Dean couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy at his words. Anyone would wish to be special to a man such as Cas._

_Cas marched over to the group of men, Dean trailing behind. Two men were surrounded by the circle they’d spotted from a distance, and it was clear they were preparing to box. Other men were placing bets—trading bills, coins, and IOU’s with each other in a fury._

_Suddenly, one of the pugilists caught sight of the pair of them approaching. Instead of behaving appropriately in the presence of a captain however, one of the privates broke into an almighty grin. “Castiel Milton!” he cried, rushing over._

_“Captain Milton,” Castiel corrected. He didn’t seem to recognize the other man, despite the familiar greeting._

_“Captain—by Jiminy—I’m going to write my ma and tell her Anna Milton’s brother is in my unit. You could write your sister, too, and tell her ‘bout me,” he said. He had an oily, insincere manner about him._

_“And you are?” Cas asked coldly. Dean felt a burst of pride at the way his beloved Captain figuratively shot down the new recruit._

_“Jonah Engels,” the man replied. “I went to school with Anna. She was sweet on me; I escorted her to the Fourth of July celebration this year.”_

_“We spent Independence Day on Cemetery Ridge,” Dean said. Perhaps Ash was right about the recruits; they hadn’t been through anything yet. This snide little Johnny-come-lately wasn’t worth shining Cas’s boots._

_“Corporal,” Private Engels acknowledged Dean, but he immediately turned back to Cas. “Are you going to place a bet, Captain? I’ll knock this joker”—he pointed behind his shoulder to his competitor, a slim young man—“into a cocked hat. He ain’t nothin’.”_

_Cas spent a good, long moment examining the other private, who was outmatched on all fronts. “Perhaps, you’d prefer a more equal challenger,” he drawled._

_“Are you half-cocked?” Dean whispered. Cas was tough as nails—Dean knew that better than anyone—but engaging in fisticuffs for entertainment seemed beneath him._

_“I can take him,” Cas dismissed Dean’s worries confidently. “I used to get into scrapes all the time as a boy. My elder brothers never let up on me.”_

_Dean sized up the private. He was tall, like Dean and Cas both were, but he had a slighter build. He was probably a scrapper, however, or else he wouldn’t be boxing, and Dean had seen enough slim fellas who could take a hundred bigger men on. “Let him be, Cas. He won’t be snot-nosed veal once he’s doing the Virginia quick-step or his rifle’s misfiring in the face of rebel fire.”_

_“If I let him be,” Cas whispered back—the intimacy of the moment gave Dean chills. “That kid’ll be beaten senseless.”_

_“Better to get sent home with a broken jaw than a bayonet to the gut.” Cas took off his coat and handed it to Dean, rolling up his shirtsleeves to expose sinewy forearms. There was a series of hushed murmurs from the crowd, as if they had already heard the stories of Cas’s bravery and determinism, then, all of a sudden, they erupted into new trades, arguments breaking out over whether the old bets were valid any longer. The young private who had been about to box, slinked away into the crowd, throwing a grateful look over his shoulder towards his hero._

_After the private acting as referee held their arms up to declare the competitors, the fight began. Cas didn’t wait for Engels to throw the first punch, hitting him across the jaw in a well-placed jab. Engels retaliated with a few glancing blows to Cas’s torso, and Dean wanted to rush forward to protect him. That was the last thing Cas would want him to do, so he refrained, his hands clutched into fists at his sides. Engels aimed a punch at Cas’s pretty face, but Cas was too quick for him and ducked out of the way, moving to jab at Engel’s stomach._

_The men around them shouted encouragements at their favorite. When the private next to him was cheering for Engels, Dean gave him a quick prod with his elbow, and he shut up. The crowd grew larger as the spectacle drew attention from rest of the 14th Connecticut and other regiments from the II Corps. Ash and Garth sidled up next to Dean to watch, as well, Ash yelling obscenities towards the new recruit that even Dean didn’t quite understand._

_Anyone who knew Cas could tell he was pulling punches just enough not to hurt his opponent. Dean could, at least, but he probably knew Cas better than most. He hoped he knew Cas better than most. He longed to… Cas was often like a shadow, though, unknowable and unreadable._

_Engels, however, did not hold back so as not to hurt his superior officer. Cas could dodge most of the punches aimed for his face and shoulders, but whenever Engels made contact, the sound of his hit was like artillery fire on a distant hill. “Come on, Milton,” Engels taunted. “Your sister hits harder than you do.”_

_“Did you give my sister a reason to hit you?” Cas asked dryly, dodging another punch._

_“Nah, I was a perfect gentleman.”_

_Suddenly, Cas dropped his arms. The referee stood there perplexed, as Cas turned his back on the fight and walked away. He pushed his way through the stunned crowd without a look back. Dean trotted after him, catching up after a few yards._

_“What was that?”_

_“I could have hurt him, Dean,” Cas lamented. “I would have if I stayed. What we do out here, it changes who we are. I was going to be a minister, now I’m a soldier and I kill men for a living. I’d rather not have any more blood on my hands.”_

_Dean handed Cas back his coat, letting his hand linger a moment too long against Cas’s own, and they walked back to the tents together._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the regiments named are real regiments from the American Civil War, and their actions reflect those who fought in them. I didn't want to take the deeds of soldiers without giving them their due honors, so Cas and Dean fight alongside real people as well as characters from Supernatural. Every effort was made to be respectful, but, obviously, creative liberties were taken where necessary.


	3. Be It Ever so Humble

**Kansas Frontier, April, 1871**

Dean woke up to the smell of frying bacon. For a moment, he thought he was back home in Lawrence, and his ma was at the stove making breakfast. The hard ground beneath him, however, brought him back to the moment. It wasn’t quite yet light, but dawn’s rosiness was peeking over the horizon. Sam was still asleep on his bedroll, but Cas was tending a fresh fire and was clearly the source of the delicious smell.

Dean pulled himself up and worked the kinks out of his back and neck in a long, satisfying stretch. He felt a flush of something old and unbidden when he realized Cas had been watching him. “You made coffee yet?” Dean asked roughly, clearing his throat of sleep and embarrassment, and sitting next to Cas by the fire.

“Probably finished settling by now,” Cas replied casually. He poured from the pot into two tin cups and handed one to Dean. He set his own in the dirt and popped open a can of condensed milk with the same knife he’d threatened Ephraim with the day prior. He poured a thick stream into his cup and stirred it with the knife.

“I thought milk was only for children and invalids,” Dean joked.

In lieu of a response, Cas offered the milk to Dean, a wry smile on his handsome face. Dean let out a huff of laughter but nodded, and let Cas pour some into his cup.

“We’re civilians now—more or less.” Cas took a long drink from his cup. “And I don’t have to pretend I like it black any longer.”

Cas turned his attentions back to the bacon frying on the fire and peeked into the Dutch oven, releasing the sweet scent of cornbread into the morning air. He had never been one for unnecessary chatter, and the subsequent silence was neither unfamiliar nor unwelcome, punctuated only by the sound of birds overhead, breakfast sizzling, and Sam’s snoring over by the wagon. 

Eventually, however, curiosity prevailed, and Dean couldn’t help himself. “How long you been out?” he finally asked.

“Four years,” Cas answered, his focus still on the bacon he was turning with a fork.

Dean let out a long whistle. “Why now?”

“I need a deputy.” 

“And there wasn’t anybody—”

“I haven’t spent the last few years making friends, Dean,” he interrupted, his voice dark; he took a deep, painful breath. “I didn’t have anyone else to ask.”

“Well, I’m honored,” Dean said dryly.

Finally, Cas looked up at him; his eyes were clouded and dark in the morning light. “I been in Nebraska. I been in Minnesota, Wyoming and Dakota Territories—first met Sheriff Singer in Sioux Falls. I been out to Denver, San Francisco, Virginia City, but I haven’t been to Kansas before now. Didn’t seem right.”  
As suddenly as he had made eye contact, Cas looked away again, as if the frying bacon was the only thing worth his attention. Dean, meanwhile, was nearly choking on his emotions. “O.K.,” he coughed, as if those simple letters could convey what he was feeling. 

“Hey, is that breakfast?” Sam asked groggily from the bedrolls.

“Cornbread’s probably done by now,” Cas answered. “There’s hot coffee.”

He poured Sam a cup and handed him the canned milk, then took the lid off the cornbread and scooped servings onto three tin plates, then portioned out the bacon onto each one. They ate in silence until their bellies were full and the sun had risen into the sky.

* * *

It was a long journey from the campsite to Bobby Singer’s soddie a few miles outside of town. Cas had led them east, to cross the Arkansas on the Santa Fe trail crossing, which they did just before dark. By the time they reached the Singer Ranch, they were exhausted and trail weary.

It was a simple pleasure to arrive at the sod-built home, which reminded Dean of the first place they’d lived in Lawrence, before his ma and Sam had come out. It was lit inside by several oil lamps and a glowing iron stove, which gave it a warm and comforting ambience. 

They were greeted by the sheriff, a gruff man who reminded Dean of his late father. Dean instantly liked him, despite the similarity. 

“You boys have any trouble?”  
“No, sir,” Dean answered. Sam and Cas left the house to unload some of the groceries they’d purchased on behalf of the sheriff. Sheriff Singer had a loaf of yeast bread and fresh butter ready for their evening repast, but he put on a pot of fresh coffee.

“Cas tells me you served together.”

“Yes, sir. 14th Connecticut.”

“I was just wonderin’ if Cas lied about his service. It seemed too incredible to believe.”

“Antietam, Fredericksburg, Gettysburg, Chancellorsville, Wilderness, Petersburg, Spottsylvania—we saw some of the bloodiest fighting in the war. I missed Fredericksburg, but I was with the 2nd Mass at Antietam.”

“And Cas?”

Dean shifted on his feet. If the sheriff didn’t know Cas’s history, then telling the man about Cas’s mistakes could lose him his job. However, if this was a test of Dean’s honesty, then he’d fail if he lied on Cas’s behalf.

“Dishonorably discharged after wounding a superior officer and sentenced to hard labor.”

Sheriff Singer let out a long hum. “He said he was protecting a friend. That you?”

Again, Dean didn’t know how to answer, but figured the truth was best. At least, as much of the truth he was willing to admit. “Yes, sir.”

“O.K., then,” Sheriff Singer answered gruffly. “I suppose you won’t be tellin’ me more.”

“No, Sir.”

“Fair enough,” Sheriff Singer chuckled. “He wouldn’t give any details either.”

“Sheriff Singer,” Dean began.

“Call me Bobby, everyone around here does.”

“You aren’t regrettin’ hiring Cas as Marshal, are you, ‘cause he’s the best man I’ve ever known. He was a good soldier, a good captain, and—”

“That’s enough, son,” Bobby chuckled. “You don’t have to sell me on him.” He sat heavily at the table, buttering a piece of bread and spreading a thick layer of butter on it. It was a testimony to his power and money as Sheriff of the county that he had them, even though he appeared to be a single man. “Cas tell you why I hired him?”

The coffee pot chose that moment to come to a boil, so Dean fetched it from the stove and set it between them on the table. Bobby handed him another piece of buttered bread on a china plate and a china cup for the coffee. 

“Cas hasn’t told me anything, ‘cept he met you in Sioux Falls, Dakota Territory.”

“We were resettling Sioux Falls after the Dakota War, and the Army’d come in and built Fort Brookings. See this tall, young fella hauling the heaviest stones day after day, but he never went on guard duty, never made small talk with the locals, never came into town for a drink at the end of the day. I asked around, found out he was a military prisoner, sentenced to hard labor. For the months he was there, the boy worked tirelessly, despite getting poor treatment by the other soldiers. He went on once the Fort was finished, and I didn’t think anything of it, until I walked into a gambling hall in Denver and he was sitting at the card table.”

“Cas was a gambler?” Dean asked in surprise, choking on his hot coffee.

“Nah, the establishment had hired him to sit at the table and make sure no one robbed the pot or cheated. That boy’s quicker with a gun than anyone I ever saw.”

“He was the best shot in the Army of the Potomac,” Dean said.

“I’m sure he was. One of the men at the table tried to escape with the purse, and Cas shot it out of his hand with a revolver no one even knew he was carrying. When I was elected sheriff, I knew he was who I wanted as town Marshal, even with his reputation. I ain’t the first to hire a gunslinger as a lawman.”

“Gunslinger?”

Cas and Sam chose that moment to come in with the supplies, but Dean payed them little attention, so lost he was in his own head. He should have realized it from the way that snot-nosed kid was acting, trying to prove how tough he was. He should have realized it when Cas said he hadn’t been making friends the last few years.

He was pulled out of his reverie when Bobby yawned and stretched his arms. “I’m going to turn in, boys. There’s a bed in the corner for you to spend the night. We’ll head into town in the morning and get you settled.”

Sam and Cas joined Dean at the table, eating thick slices of bread and butter and drinking Bobby’s thick coffee. He had fresh milk, probably from one of the cows they could hear mooing outside. 

“I’ll sleep in the wagon,” Cas offered. “You two can take the bed.”

“Sure,” Dean answered, the words coming out harshly despite his disappointment. “I’ll help you get settled.”

He all but shoved Cas through the door into the cool night air. 

“When were you goin’ to tell me, huh,” Dean said angrily. “A gunslinger? You plannin’ on gettin’ us all killed?”

Cas’s eyes were dark even in the lantern-light. “I had to do what I could to survive. It’s no different from the war, Dean, ‘cept there’s no commanders telling you what to do. They dropped me off at a fort and told me my service was done and to be gone by sundown. I had no skills. I could fire a gun and labor, and that was it. I tried working on the railroad, but they wanted cheaper labor. At first, I was just protectin’ myself, but it ain’t hard to get a reputation when you take no shit and have the aim to back it up.”

Dean felt a surge of worry and protectiveness through the anger. Cas had been alone and downtrodden, wandering the frontier trying to find a place for himself with only his prowess with a gun to show. “Cas, they’re goin’ to come after you, like that kid, Ephraim, today. If only to prove their toughness.”

Cas shrugged dismissively. “I’ve been dealing with that for years. I never lost a shoot out, and I ain’t goin’ to start.”

“You’re no better than the outlaws,” Dean sneered. He gave Cas a shove towards the wagon.

Cas shoved back at him, knocking Dean off balance; he stumbled to catch himself. Cas’s face softened as he moved forward to steady him. “I used my reputation to help people,” he sighed. “I protected settlers, I got revenge for a grieving widow, I even fought the army once to keep ‘em from killing a village of Indian women and children.”

Dean was beyond caring and gave Cas one last shove into the wagon. This wasn’t the man he’d once known. “No wonder Perdition’s full of scum. Look at the Marshal.”

“Dean,” Cas pleaded, back against the wood. Suddenly, Dean realized how close they’d come, nearly pressed nose to nose, and he backed away.

“Sam and I won’t be stayin’ past tomorrow,” Dean growled, turned back towards the soddie, and went inside.

Sam was already in bed when he stormed inside. Dean stripped down to his drawers and climbed under the covers next to his brother, just like they’d done when they were boys.

Sam looked up from the book he was reading by lantern-light. “Cas is a real good man, Dean.” Dean harrumphed and rolled over away from his brother, but Sam went on. “He told me he knew all about my difficulties when I was young. I guess you told him?”—Dean grunted noncommittally—“He said that everybody deserved a second chance.”

* * *

Dean wouldn’t even look at him. Bobby had been tending the horses they’d purchased for the deputies, as well as Cas’s own while he was away, so they were riding into town while Bobby drove the wagon. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean whispered to the jet black mare he chose, stroking her white blaze. He saddled her with no problem, graceful and practiced. Sam, on the other hand, looked like he was going to fall off his dappled gelding. He didn’t appear to be someone who rode often. He’d get used to it, eventually. 

The ride into town wasn’t difficult, as Bobby had a nice gravel road for half the distance. The nape of Cas’s neck tingled, as chills made their way up his back. Dean was about to get the first glimpse of Cas’s new home. It was to be Dean’s home, too, now, and Cas’s long loneliness was to come to an end.

The town had changed even in the few days Castiel had been gone. Main Street was still a row of flat-fronted wooden buildings, but Marv had gotten his new windows installed and Ellen had added a porch to the front of the saloon. Walt and Roy had been working on finishing the extension to the jail, and Cas hoped they’d finished in time to show it to Dean.

“What do you think?” he asked, as their horses clip-clopped along the wide, unpaved road.

“It ain’t much,” Dean groused.

“Sure,” Cas replied. “A few months ago, it was a pile of buffalo skulls and overgrazed prairie grass. These people have worked hard to build something out of nothing.”

Dean let out an annoyed harrumph rather than a coherent response. Sam rolled his eyes, giving Cas a sympathetic smile. Cas halted his bay mare, Sam and Dean stopping alongside him. Sam shakily dismounted his horse, while Cas and Dean leapt down easily. Cas tied his mare to the rail in front of the jail, which had a new coat of whitewash. Bobby, meanwhile, continued on down main street, promising to deliver the rest of the sundries they’d purchased to Cas’s place by the creek.

“We’re the county seat,” he explained. “So all prisoners will stay here until they’re tried under Sheriff Singer or sent on to Topeka for a Federal trial, in which case, it would be our job to see them safely across the state. That’ll be easier when the train comes next year.” He led them into the two-roomed wooden building. The first room had three cells in the back. Their new iron bars looked solid and dependable, but they hadn’t been tested yet. A desk for paperwork was in view of the entrance, with Sam and Dean’s contracts ready for their signatures. To the left, a door led to the newly added second room, and Cas guided his new deputies through it to show them what it contained. 

“If there’s a prisoner in the jail, then at least one of us needs to be here all hours. Here’s the stove for heat and cooking”—he pointed to the new iron stove set along one wall—“and the cots are still in the tent.”

“Tent?”

Cas couldn’t help the smile that spread on his face talking about his little home. “I got a plot of land by the creek. I live in a tent there until I can get a house built. Probably won’t be until next year—“

“When the train gets here,” Dean finished. 

“Yes.”

“Why haven’t you been living here?” Sam asked.

“Can’t you see the sawdust, Sammy?” Dean chuckled, swatting his brother’s arm. 

Sam examined the room more closely. “You built this for us?”

“I wanted you to feel at home,” Cas answered. He could feel Dean’s eyes boring into him, but he refused to look at them, as the anger that had filled them all morning was still there.

* * *

_**Falmouth, Virginia, February 14, 1863** _

_Dean wandered the cold camp. He’d left his winter coat in the little wooden cabin he shared with Ash, Garth, and a few other men, but he wasn’t about to turn back and get it. If anything, it might prompt his captain to offer him a cup of coffee or even supper. Lieutenant Milton made good stew, unlike most of the men, Dean included, who had been living off their mas’ and wives’ cooking all their life. Maybe he should ask for a few pointers, loosen the officer’s lips a bit with small talk and a few compliments that had nothing to do with the battle._

_Captain Milton’s cabin was with the other officers of the regiment, where the cabins were smaller, but only housed one or two men. Dean felt a sudden case of the shakes before he stepped up to the door. He’d rather face a whole company of armed rebs than make conversation with the handsome lieutenant._

_He summoned up all his courage and knocked. “Cap’n, you have a moment?”_

_Lieutenant Milton was reading at a rough-hewn desk against the wall next to the door. He looked up at his visitor and his face broke into a smile. “Hello, Corporal Winchester. How’s the 14th treating you? You settlin’ in fine?”_

_“Yes, sir,” Dean responded automatically, stepping into the room. “I was wonderin’ if I could ask a few questions of you.”_

_“Of course.”_

_Once his eyes had adjusted to the dim interior light, Dean could see a few of Lieutenant Milton’s belongings around the room. There were quite a few books, a hand knit blanket, and a photograph of a beautiful young woman._

_“Is that your sweetheart?” Dean asked, pointing to the photograph._

_Lieutenant Milton seemed surprised by the question, and looked to where Dean was pointing. “That’s my sister, Anna.”_

_“Oh,” Dean exclaimed. “You got a sweetheart?”_

_The lieutenant laughed ruefully. “Not anymore. She didn’t want me to take a commission, so she broke off our engagement.”_

_“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”_

_“Is that what you came in to ask, Corporal? Are you havin’ trouble with a girl back home? I’m hardly anyone who could give advice on matters of the heart.”_

_Dean felt his hands go clammy with nerves. “No, I ain’t got a sweetheart neither, sir. I wanted to ask you about things that the men were sayin’ about you.”_

_Suddenly, Lieutenant Milton went stiff, his manner cold and uninviting. “I can’t imagine what my men are saying about me. I…”_

_“They’ve been makin’ out that you were some kind of hero at Fredericksburg.”_

_Lieutenant Milton’s manner turned even colder. “I doubt an officer performing his duty makes him a hero. The brass think so, too, as they don’t offer medals to officers.”_

_“Would you tell me about it?”_

_“Corporal, I doubt you’d want to hear about one of the Union’s greatest failures. I did nothing heroic, nothing special; I continued to do my job in the face of enemy fire, nothing more.”_

_“I think that sounds pretty special, sir, but I understand. Thanks for the time; I’ll see you at drills.” He made to leave, stepping out the doorway into the cold air, but the Lieutenant stopped him with a hand to his arm._

_“I suppose it’d be better to tell you the truth than to let you think something about me that isn’t true,” he sighed. “Do you want some coffee?”_

_“Yes, sir,” Dean grinned. There was a second seat, likely made out of the stump of one of the tree’s that made up the cabin, and Dean pulled it towards the desk to sit on it._

_“I hope it hasn’t gone cold,” the Lieutenant apologized and set a tin cup on the desk next to his own. “I suppose you know the basics of the battle? You were there?”_

_Dean took a sip from the cup; it was just warm enough still to combat the draft coming through the hastily built cabin. “We missed the fighting, but people talk.”_

_“Well, we marched through the city; to the west there was a series of hills, we call it Merye’s Heights, but each hill used to have a name. We had to march through fields 600 yards, dotted with farm buildings, fences; we had to cross a canal over three small bridges. We already knew it was a fool’s errand, but orders are orders. The rebels had the high ground and were pelting us with massive artillery. No one could have taken that ridge, but we were the ones assigned it, so we tried. Our men—brave, young men—were cut down not 125 yards from the ridge; it was slaughter. Our unit was in the third wave, right in the center of the division, and I watched men better than me fall to Confederate fire.”_

_Lieutenant Milton paused to take a long draught of his coffee. Dean found his own was clutched in his hands tightly. He loosened his grip to take another drink of it himself. So far, Milton’s story hadn’t been anything new. He knew about the failed assault on Merye’s Heights. His interest was in what happened next._

_Lieutenant Milton let out a long sigh and continued. “I felt a piercing pain in my arm, then another.” He put his hand to his left arm, where he’d had a splint when Dean had approached him on Christmas Day. “There was a stone wall set behind a road—we call it Sunken Road now, like the bloody lane of Antietam, but, again, I’m certain it used to have another name—and it was lined with the best the Confederacy had to offer. There was no choice but to drop to the ground and hope the cannons didn’t get you, too. My wounds weren’t bad—mostly a graze—but I didn’t want to lose my arm if I managed not to lose my life, so I bound my wounds the best I could. One of my fellow Lieutenants had fallen nearby—Balthazar. He was the son of an Englishman, ribald sense of humor, hated every popular song of the day, and my best friend; he was face down on the ground. My heart was racing, but I crawled to him and turned him over to see his face. He was bleeding from a rifle shot to his neck; it gurgled and bubbled as he tried to breath. I put my hands against his wound, trying to staunch the blood—and life—flowing from him. He couldn’t speak; the bullet had stolen his voice first. He couldn’t even say goodbye.”_

_Dean couldn’t help himself and put a comforting hand on top of the Lieutenant’s, which was clutching his wounded arm. His knuckles were white with tension, but his hand relaxed as Dean touched it. He whipped up his head and stared at the junction where their fingers touched._

_“You can’t blame yourself,” Dean said, his voice rough with emotion. He, too, had lost friends on the battlefield._

_“I blame those bloody rebels,” the Lieutenant said, his eyes dancing with a threatening darkness. “I’ll give them hell before this war is over, I promise.”_

_Dean let his fingers dance soothingly over Milton’s hand. “Sure you will.”_

_Lieutenant Milton let out a rough cough, clearing the emotion out of his voice. “Do you want me to continue? I’m fine.”_

_“Please.” Dean withdrew his hand and took a drink from his now-cold coffee._

_“I stayed with Balthazar, watching wave after wave of our men get cut down by confederate fire, until another shot grazed my canteen and I knew I had to take cover, or I was going to end up the same way as Balthazar. There was a wagon not fifty yards to the north, and I made my way towards it, but the way was littered with my fellow men. I came across a living soul; I could not leave him be to die there. I took care of his wounds as I could, and then I dragged him along with me over the rocky ground. When we reached the wagon, there were two already seeking refuge there, from the 10th New York. They welcomed us, and I felt safe to leave my man with them, as I went to find more survivors. We were there through the day and into the night, the wails of dying men around us, until we were able to trudge back to the line the next afternoon in defeat.”_

_Dean let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “That’s what the men say you did,” he said with mock authority, as if their words could hold even the tiniest shred of power as the Lieutenant’s had. “Thank you, Lieutenant, for sharing that with me. I feel like I’m part of the 14th now.” He stood up shakily, setting his empty cup on the desk again._

_“You are part of the 14th,” Cas said roughly. “Your old Captain says you outfitted yourself very well at Antietam and otherwise.”_

_“You checked up on me, Lieutenant?” Dean couldn’t help but grin._

_“I did my due diligence, Corporal,” the Lieutenant frowned. “And, at times like this, you can call me Cas.”_

* * *

**Perdition, Kansas, April 1871**

Cas had led them through the town—what there was of it—until they arrived at the plot of land he had mentioned owning. It wasn’t like the tents they’d carried around during the war. Made of white canvas, it had a solid wooden frame. Inside, they found the cots he had promised. One was set up for Cas to sleep on with a rough woolen blanket thrown over its thin canvas. Another was in place beside it, as if waiting for someone to claim it, and a third was leaning against the frame.

“This is home,” Cas announced proudly, letting them take in his tent. “Are you hungry? I could get started on supper, if you don’t mind, get some beans soaking.”

They agreed to join Cas for supper, but it wasn’t like they had any other options. Cas had all the food and the cooking equipment, not to mention the only skill at cooking it. Cas started a fire in the pit outside the tent, piling dried cow dung until flames roared to life. He sent Sam off to fetch water from the creek, while he dug through the things Bobby had dropped off from Hays City.

“Has our little town won you over yet?” Cas asked once they were alone.

Dean refused to answer, focusing instead on the few belongings spread out in the little tent. There was a chest of drawers, worn and ancient, along one of the canvas walls. A cotton shirt poked out of an open drawer. On top, the old portrait of Anna looked waterlogged and damaged, the silver frame tarnished. “You write to your sister?” he asked.

“I haven’t spoken to Anna since the war,” Cas shrugged, looking up from his cooking. “I assume my family thinks me dead. They’d probably prefer it to the truth.”

Since Dean was in that position himself, he knew that couldn’t possibly be true. No one could know Cas Milton and not long to be around him all the time. He was like the center of a storm, the world and everyone in it swirling around him. “I wrote to her after the war, askin’ about you,” he said instead of confessing his true feelings and telling Cas he wanted to stay.

“Did you tell her about the court-martial?”

“I did.”

“Good,” Castiel growled. “The army wouldn’t bother telling them, and it’s good they know what I’m worth.”

“Cas,” Dean said, his voice going soft against his will. “You’re worth more than what a group of bureaucrats thinks. You always were.”

“Does that mean you’re staying?” His eyes went big and vulnerable. The years and the roughness faded away, and he was the wide-eyed captain who Dean had idolized—then loved. “This town needs you, Dean.”

“Maybe I need this town, too,” he said, his voice becoming thick with emotion. “I guess I’m stayin’.”

The air grew heady, despite the late spring chill, as if smoke from the fire outside had made its way into the tent. Dean couldn’t help staring. Cas’s eyes held the answers Dean had been searching for for years, and they seemed to see straight through to Dean’s soul. Years equal to the time apart seemed to pass as Dean was caught again in Cas’s huge blue eyes. 

Sam had to clear his throat to get their attention, and Cas sprang into action like he was waking up from a dream. He got right to work getting the beans into the pot, leaving Dean trapped in the dream by himself, staring after his old friend. If he had thought he could avoid old feelings, he was very wrong. Cas still held the same fascination for him as he always had.

“We’re going to Miss Ellen’s now,” Cas announced, the pot tucked into embers to simmer for hours.

“Miss Ellen?” Dean asked. “I thought there weren’t any respectable women in town.”

“Miss Ellen runs the saloon,” Cas explained, bending his head to hide a blush. “And the brothel.”

“Brothel,” Dean choked out, feeling his face turn red. “That ain’t no place for a respectable man.”

Cas scoffed. “Bobby thinks men behave better when there are women around. He thinks men get into more trouble when there isn’t a lady to impress. Plus, I think he’s sweet on Miss Ellen.”

Dean and Sam just exchanged a look. Their ma would kill them for going into a house of ill-repute.

The building looked as freshly built as the jail had, rough wood siding and new whitewash on the façade. Inside, the long hall had wooden floors and a bar along the right side, taking up most of the wall, with a mess of tables in the back. To the left, there was a doorway that led next door and a sign above it, brazenly announcing it was the brothel. There was a crystal chandelier from back East hanging from the middle of the ceiling, casting twinkling lights all along the room. It was probably the nicest building in town.

“Hey there, Cas,” a woman at the bar shouted. She was past her prime and motherly, with a no-nonsense attitude that Dean had come to expect from women on the frontier.

“Hey, Miss Ellen,” Cas answered, then nodded to Dean and Sam. “These are my new deputies, came out from Lawrence on the train the other day: Dean Winchester and his brother Sam.”

“Welcome to town, boys.” She gave them a pleasant nod and looked to the back of the saloon. “That there’s Martin Creaser, Walt, Roy, and Benny Lafitte. Rufus is behind the bar.” One or two of the men gave a disinterested wave, but they were more concerned with their drinks and the two ladies entertaining them. “I’ll call the girls up, so you can meet ‘em. Jo! Donna!” she cried towards the back of the saloon. She stepped out from behind the bar, opened the door to the brothel and shouted, “Meg! Come out when you’re done, there are some gentlemen I want you to meet!”

Both the young women who made their way from the tables were blonde. One was young and thin, and the other buxom with high color, her cheeks pink from drinking alongside the men—or perhaps it was rouge; Dean couldn’t tell. “This is my girl, Jo,” Ellen said, pointing to the younger girl. “This is Donna. Donna, why don’t you pour a few drinks for our hardworking deputies.”

While Miss Ellen was dressed in an expensive-looking striped silk dress, looking like a respectable lady, the two prostitutes were in hardly more than their chemises and petticoats. Dean could see ankle, and the pale rise of their breasts over the top of their thin cotton chemises. He had never seen that much skin on a woman—not in public where everyone could see it. Dean could hear Sam gulp behind him, his eyes glazed over and fixed on the plump flesh exposed for show. Donna handed Dean a glass of beer, lowering her eyes demurely, but pushing out her chest in a brazen display.

When Dean didn’t respond, she moved on to Sam, handing him a second glass. “Aren’t you a tall drink of water,” she purred.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam answered, still staring at the rise of her bosom. He let her lead him to one of the tables in the back, and she sat right down on his lap. 

Dean whipped his head around to where Cas was surveying all of this with mild amusement. “You’re going to corrupt my innocent little brother,” he complained.

“Your brother who ran away with a rebel hussy at sixteen?”

Dean chuckled as he was reproached, watching his brother blush in the presence of a pretty lady. “He told me what you said about second chances. Is that what this town is for you, too?”

When Dean looked to Cas for an answer, he found him distracted; another prostitute had come through the door. She had made no effort to hide that she’d just been working, either. Her hair was loose and dark around her bare shoulders, mussed from something Dean could only imagine. She had left unbuttoned the top of her chemise so that more than just the rise of her creamy bosom was visible, but a pink bud peeked out from behind the white lace. Dean pretended not to notice the dark narrowing of Cas’s eyes, nor the way he licked his lips at her wanton comportment.

“Cas,” she said, her voice throaty and low. “Who is your friend?”

Cas cleared his voice obviously, but it was still rough when he spoke. “This is my new assistant, Dean Winchester. He and I served together in the war.”

“Nice to meet ya, Dean,” she said airily. “You want to sit with me?” 

Dean looked to Cas, who was nodding in encouragement, a small smile on his face. She took Cas’s hand, then Dean’s, in her own tiny hands and led them to an empty table. She hopped up on top, pulling her petticoats high around her legs so that they could see she wasn’t wearing any drawers but not high enough that she’d charge for the pleasure.

“So, you’ve got all the chatter ‘bout our Cas, then?” she asked, a flirtatious lilt to her voice.

“Nah,” Dean dismissed. Whatever Cas had told the people of Perdition was Cas’s business; his story wasn’t Dean’s to tell. 

“So he’s as much of a mystery to you as he is to the rest of us?” she drawled.

“Meg,” Cas scolded.

She tossed her head back and laughed, but there was something forced about it. Dean didn’t immediately dislike her, but he definitely didn’t like the way she was focusing her attention on Cas.

All of a sudden, voices which had been muted became raised. “Shut your bazoo, ya big blowhard,” a southern tinged voice shouted.

Every eye turned to the corner where a thin man was standing in anger. “I’m sick of your face, Lafitte. I’m sick of your voice. They should have shot all of you when they had the chance.”

“Dry up,” Benny said with a disinterred eyeroll. He moved to stand as well, but the thin man—Martin—shoved him back. He appeared to be strong despite his smaller size.

“Hey, hey,” Ellen called from the bar, but her pleas went unheeded.

Martin landed the first punch, but he was no match for the larger man, who forced him back against the wall. Cas sprung up from his chair, rushing towards the trouble; Dean followed, leaving Meg alone at the table, pouting. Wordlessly, Cas indicated to Dean to take one of Benny’s arms, while he took the other, and the two of them managed to pull Benny away from Martin. Dean left Benny to Cas, and grabbed Martin where he was still flailing and throwing useless punches. Sam joined him, using his huge size to easily subdue the angry man.

“Jo,” Cas called, and the thin blonde lady rushed to his side. Unlike Martin, Benny was calm, almost eerily so, but let Cas pass him off to the prostitute. “Benny, man, why don’t you let Jo calm you down. Jo?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, then cooed, “I’ll make you forget all about this, fella.”

“Dean, Sam, take Martin to cell number one.” Cas took a ring of keys from his pocket and handed them to Dean, separating out a small iron key. “Let him sleep it off where he can’t hurt anyone.”

“Sure, Cas,” Dean replied, falling easily into following Cas’s orders once again. He tugged on Martin to lead him out of the saloon, but it took both brothers to drag him out and into the dusty street.

* * *

Once Jo had taken Benny to her room, Cas helped Ellen straighten up the chairs knocked over in the fight. He pulled a few bills out of his pocket and handed them to the Madam. “This is for Jo’s company,” he said.

“Thanks, Cas,” Ellen said as she accepted it. 

“You make sure to give Jo her share,” Cas admonished.

“Jo don’t get a share. She gets an allowance, and I put the rest in savings,” she replied, cleaning up a spilled drink with a bar rag. “I take care of all my girls, but Jo is my daughter.”

“Marshal,” Meg called from where she had resumed her perch on the table. She had lifted her skirts higher than she had when Dean had been around. “When you’re done, come and visit me. I’m lonely.”

“I’ll keep you company,” a deep voice offered.

Meg pushed him off. “Later, Walt.”

Cas finished straightening the last chair, but it had a broken rail. “Let me know if you have trouble getting Martin to pay for that,” he told Ellen.

“Sure,” Ellen said as she went behind the bar.

His job done, Cas bounded over to where Meg was once again perched on the table in the back. He settled between her open legs, and she took his hand to cup her breast beneath her chemise. He tucked his free hand into his coat pocket, where he’d stored the bag of sweets he’d bought at Hays City.

“I got these for you,” he said, brandishing the little sack and dangling it tantalizingly in front of her. “Your favorites.”

“Butterscotch?” she grinned, pulling him into a breathtaking kiss. “Ain’t you sweet! Why don’t you let your new deputies handle the loco buffalo hunter, and I’ll thank you proper.”

Cas hesitated, looking out the saloon to where Dean had just left. His deputies could handle Martin, and it was a good test for their skills, but they’d only just arrived in town. Cas wanted to follow them, relearn all the details about Dean he’d forgotten in the intervening years, but he knew better than to tempt himself. He slid his hand into hers and let her lead him through the door to the brothel.


	4. Keep Your Hands to Yourself

**Perdition, Kansas, May, 1871**

The next few weeks passed in a flurry. Cas had fallen back into military officer cadences, drilling Dean and Sam every day whenever there wasn’t official business to attend to. He set up a row of tin cans behind the jailhouse and tested Dean’s and Sam’s accuracy with both a revolver and a rifle. Sam proved to be an excellent shot, but Dean hadn’t yet mastered the revolver.

“You’re sometimes better off with a rifle, anyway,” Cas said, picking up the Sharps’ rifle that so resembled the one he had carried throughout the war. “Better with distances, and you can keep one with you in town without asking for trouble.”

He fired off a shot, sending one of the tin cans flying into the air and startling the horses in the paddock behind them. As he replaced the rifle onto the paddock fence, Cas couldn’t hide his smugness.

“Come on, sure shot, teach me your ways,” Dean challenged, waving the revolver at him. 

Cas rolled his eyes, but he sidled up behind Dean anyway. “You just have to focus, Dean.”

That was nearly impossible with Cas warm and solid against his back. Cas raised a hand to cup Dean’s gun hand, and his other snaked around Dean’s waist to hold him steady. He smelled like gunpowder and whiskey, with a whiff underneath of something ineffably Cas. His hands were solid against Dean’s skin, and Dean felt transported. He let out a soft sigh of contentment and relaxed into Cas’s hold.

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas warned.

“Sorry,” Dean shrugged, but he couldn’t help the smile on his face. “I’ll focus.”

With Cas behind him, Dean attempted to point his gun at the targets again. Cas’s steady grip on his gun hand was the only thing keeping it from shaking with the force of his concentration. Not on the targets in front of him, no, but on not pushing back against Cas and rubbing against him like a mare in heat. He fired six shots, looking behind the tin cans, to the empty fields beyond.

“O.K., that’ll do,” Cas said, backing away and taking his warmth with him. Dean looked at him over his shoulder with a frown, but Cas only indicated the targets with a nod of his head. 

Dean turned his head back to see how he had done. Four of the tin cans were on the ground. He wanted to throw his arms around Cas in celebration, but he stopped himself and shouted “Hurrah!”

Sam chose that moment to come around the jail. “So you heard?” he said dryly.

“Your brother finally learned how to handle a revolver,” Cas answered, a pleased smile on his face.

“’Bout time,” Sam chuckled. “Mail’s here.”

He handed a stack of papers to Dean, who tucked the revolver into the waist of his trousers, the way Cas did. There were three letters from his ma. Since Perdition didn’t have a post office yet, the mail had to be fetched from Hays City. He tore open the envelope with the earliest postmark to see what his ma had to say.

_April 20, 1871_

_Dear Dean,_

_I hope the frontier is serving you well, and that freedom is all you hoped it to be. Living in town is going well. I’ve started helping out at Mills’ Hardware and Ammunition, and it’s good to fill my days with something useful._

_I have no hard feelings about your decision, and I hope you can think of your time on the farm with happiness someday. I await a letter from you and Sam, telling me you’ve settled in well._

_Your ma._

Dean clutched the letter in his hand, wrinkling the crisp paper. His ma’s approval meant more than he could ever put into words. He tore open the next two letters, and read them with the same speed. Jody was going to make his ma partner in the business, and the rest of his ma’s money from the sale of the farm was going to save the store.

“I’m going inside to write ma back,” he announced, heading around the jail where Sam had come from. The two of them shared the room attached to the jailhouse, meaning that someone was always there whether a prisoner was in the cells or not. It was furnished sparely; they still each slept on the cots Cas had provided. The only other option, however, was to bunk with Cas in the tent on his property, but Dean couldn’t handle that. The room wasn’t too bad. They’d added a desk from scrap wood leftover from building the room; he had bought some writing paper from Marv’s store just the previous day. 

Dean had just stepped onto the main street when he spotted a stranger in town. He had easily learned all of the faces of the residents, as well as all the regular transients like Martin Creaser, who’d been Dean’s first arrest. The town was built on an old buffalo hunter camp, so it was as much home to Martin as it was anyone else. The stranger was a tall negro, which wasn’t too unusual for the town. A freeman ran the bar for Ellen, and he was as well liked as anyone despite his gruffness.

“Can I help you, sir?” Dean asked, making sure the midday sun’s rays caught the shiny badge on his waistcoat.

The stranger turned and glared at Dean, and it was then that Dean noticed a revolver tucked into the waist of his trousers. “Nope,” the man snarled.

“You’re goin’ to have to leave that weapon at the Marshal’s, Mister. Law of the town.”

“How’m I goin’ to protect myself then?” the stranger asked. “Don’t you know this town’s home to an infamous gunslinger?”

Dean narrowed his eyes dangerously. “Every man here’s a law-abiding citizen, and anyone who ain’t is dealt with,” he growled. “Lose your gun or you’ll make me deal with you, stranger.”

The stranger reached for his revolver, and Dean’s hand moved to his own, still in his waistband. His hand tensed in preparation, Cas’s lesson fresh in his mind. The stranger hesitated, as well, perhaps pondering if he could outshoot Dean. However, when he drew his weapon, it was not poised to shoot. He handed it over with a frown.

“Name’s Gordon Walker, deputy.”

* * *

The town of Perdition was always in flux. People came and went, as they passed through on their way to Hays City or westward on the Santa Fe Trail, which passed just north of them. Just when Dean got used to seeing a face around town, they’d be off chasing buffalo on the frontier, or heading south to Texas. Some of them made Perdition home, building a homestead or a house in town, then made their fortune on the frontier. Benny Lafitte worked as a Chuck Wagon cook on the cattle trails, and he was leaving town to head south and meet up with the cowboys. He would be missed, as every Sunday evening since the town was founded, he parked his wagon in the empty lot next to Miss Ellen’s saloon and fired up the cooking pit. Since this was his last night in town, he planned to make this night one to remember. 

The whole town got involved. Ellen provided plenty of beer and whiskey, and Bobby slaughtered a steer, letting Benny take his pick of the cuts in return for butchering it. He grilled up steaks, made stew with potatoes, and baked up a mess of soda biscuits and a sweet potato pie. The whole town was there, minus the Widow Richardson, who had a ranch a few miles to the South and didn’t come into town unless she needed to, and Martin, who had never come to a Sunday supper as he hated Benny. Even the stranger who Dean had confiscated a revolver from a few days earlier had come. Everyone brought something to add to the food: dried apples, beans, gingersnap cookies, cornbread. Ellen took up a collection to pay Marv for everything else, and anyone who could put in some money did. They’d got up a pretty good fund together, and Benny put it in a coffee can in his chuck wagon.

“Are you certain you don’t want me to hold onto that?” Cas asked.

“I handle all the money on the trail, brother,” Benny countered. “You’re a Marshal, not a banker.”

Cas shook his head fondly, but clasped Benny on the shoulder and went to find his deputies. He found Dean by the fire pit. His guitar was in his hands, and he was fiddling with it, tuning the strings and warming up.

“Is that the same one?” Cas asked as he sat next to his old friend, giving a nod to the instrument in his hands.

“Nah, that one was stolen. Lasted the whole war and got swiped while I was on the train home.” He gave the instrument a quick strum, its sound reminding Cas of old times.

“It brought many men comfort,” Cas said—not the least of whom was Cas himself. Sitting around the camp, singing songs of home, was one of the few things they could do to alleviate the homesickness they all felt. For Cas, however, it seemed to have had the opposite effect. He had never been happier to be somewhere as when he was singing around the campfire with Dean.

“Shucks, Captain,” Dean blushed, then, sputtering, “uh, Marshal.”

Cas was unable to hide his smile, and hoped the waning sunlight would do so for him. Either way, a similar smile brightened Dean’s face, as well, so he wouldn’t worry.

Sam, on the other hand, was frowning with his arms crossed in front of him. Cas had not known Sam before these few weeks, but he had found him a usually amiable fellow. The stories Dean had told him of a callow youth had mellowed to a man of considerable thoughtfulness and logic, so it was odd to see him pouting like a petulant child.

“Sammy doesn’t like Benny too much.”

“Why not?” Cas asked with a frown, but Sam offered no answer.

“He reminds my brother of his own shortcomings,” Dean explained, giving his brother a pointed look and setting the tuned guitar on the ground in front of him, so it leaned against his legs.

Sam huffed and crossed his arms tighter around his body, as if seeking protection against the chuck wagon cook on the far side of the lot.

“Reconstruction means forgiveness,” Cas reminded them. “For Benny, and for you, Sam.”

“You believe that?” Dean asked, his eyes wide.

“I believe we fought to preserve the union, not to throw it away on hurt pride.”

“You see, here in Kansas, it wasn’t about that,” Sam began, leaning forward to address Cas past his brother. “We bled for years before the war, and our wounds are still bleeding now. I was young and stupid, and I thought I understood the way the world worked. One side would slaughter the other, in horrible acts, and I chose the side that I thought was less guilty. Until I learned better,” he finished bitterly. Dean patted his brother on the shoulder, in solidarity, Cas was sure, of their joint tragedy.

“I thought the conflicts in Kansas were between abolitionists and pro-slavery border ruffians,” Cas asked, frowning. “Surely, you understood the moral right stood on the side of abolition?” 

“You sound like ma and pa,” Sam groaned. 

“Our families are not unalike,” Cas said. “Old New England families, abolitionists. We were raised to understand that enslavement was morally reprehensible. Surely, you knew what kind of people you supported?”

“It wasn’t that simple to an idealistic sixteen-year-old. It wasn’t that simple at Pottawattomie Creek, or Osceola.”

“Bushwackers burned Lawrence first, or does that not count because you weren’t there yet,” Dean added bitterly.

“Of course it counts, Dean,” Sam sighed. “I was never pro-slavery, I was pro-Kansas, and I thought I was doing what was right.”

“And Benny?” Cas asked. “Was he not protecting his home, as well?”

“It’s different,” Sam grumbled, turning away.

Cas thought perhaps the problem was that it wasn’t so different at all. Every man who supported the confederacy had to deal with his decision in his own way. If Sam chose to ignore it, that was his choice, but, one day, it would come back to haunt him.

* * *

Dean breathed a quiet sigh of relief. As Cas pleaded the moral right and reconciliation, Dean recognized the man he’d known during the war for the first time in Perdition. He’d worried that Cas had disappeared completely, but seeing him arguing so vehemently for the causes he’d gone to war for restored Dean’s faith. He couldn’t even be mad at Sam for continuing to defend his youthful actions because it had illuminated his Cas again, noble and beautiful. The setting sun caught his profile, and he looked like a statue carved out of marble, dedicated to all that was good in the world.

The spell was broken when Meg joined their party, sitting on the arm of Cas’s chair like she belonged there. 

“Are you goin’ to play that thing?” she asked petulantly, nodding towards Dean’s guitar.

“After we eat,” Dean replied with a pout of his own. It was his turn to cross his arms petulantly and stare off into the distance.

“Food’s on!” Benny finally shouted, ringing the bell on his wagon. In the mad rush to get plates of steak, beans, and stew, Dean hoped Meg would have lost interest, but when they returned to their chairs—brought from the jailhouse themselves—she was right there waiting for them, a stolen platter of gingersnaps at the ready.

She popped one of the gingersnaps in her mouth, sucking on her finger before she removed it. Dean was still unused to such a brazen display of sensuality. At least, she was dressed somewhat respectably, as opposed to her normal comportment in the saloon. Her bodice was still daringly low but just—if only—within propriety, and her limbs were covered. Her behavior was unacceptable, however. Dean tried to focus on his dinner, which even Sam was enjoying despite its cook, but all he could do was watch Meg flirt shamelessly with Cas. Cas wasn’t immune to her charms, either, watching her with heavy lids and interest sparkling in his eyes.

Once everyone had finished their meal, Dean picked up his guitar and strummed a few chords to get everyone’s attention. Cas peered up at him over Meg’s form, his eyes dark and mysterious. Dean felt chills down his back at the emotion in his eyes, but Meg giggled sensually and it was gone. 

Dean started singing the first line of _Oh! Susannah_. Soon a large crowd had gathered around him; Marv the shopkeeper arrived with a concertina and Irv brought his banjo. Everyone was singing along, but Dean could hear Cas’s rich baritone over the rest of the voices. He still sang like an angel.

Once they’d finished the first song, they moved on to _Camptown Races_ , then _Little Brown Jug_ , and _In the Sweet By and By_. They’d just finished _Beautiful Dreamer_ , which Dean didn’t know and let Marv take the lead on the concertina, when someone shouted out, “ _Lorena_!”

Dean looked into the darkness to see who had called out such a song, but he couldn’t make out a guilty face. “Nope,” he said. An upset sigh erupted from the group, but Dean held his ground. 

“ _The Glendy Burk_ ,” Benny called out.

“You’re going to have to lead us,” Dean replied, as he knew the chords, but not the lyrics.

“Sure, brother,” Benny agreed jovially.

Meg settled in comfortably on Cas’s lap as Benny started singing. He put on the part of a riverboat captain, saluting and thrusting out his chest.

Cas leaned across Meg to whisper, “Benny _was_ a riverboat captain, you know. He received marks of a privateer at the start of the war and was captured as a blockade runner not long after. He spent the rest of the war in a prison camp.”

“Now he’s a cattle trail cookie?” Dean asked, as he stopped playing and let Marv and Irv keep up the rhythm of the song.

“He lost his boat,” Cas explained with a shrug. “A lot of men who came out here had no other choice.”

“Women, too,” Meg added darkly.

They finished up the song, started another, and continued singing until the sun had sunk below the horizon and the stars twinkled above them. Every time someone suggested a wartime song, Dean refused, but, otherwise, it was a rollickin’ good time for all.

Until Benny went to stow up his wagon. “Money’s gone, brother,” he said grimly.

Cas wrangled up the remaining stragglers, but everyone emptied their pockets and there was nothing.

“I saw that Negro skulking around while y’all were singing,” Roy offered.

“Hey, now,” Cas reprimanded. “We ain’t goin’ to head that direction. He ain’t the only stranger in town.”

“He’s the only one skulking about,” Roy countered testily.

Dismissing Roy, Cas turned to Dean. “What do you think? Is Walker someone we should be lookin’ at, or is it the kind of nonsense you get sometimes?”

Dean thought on it for a moment. He knew Walker was bad news the moment he refused to give up his weapon. “We should check him out,” he said.

Cas exhaled in a huff. “There’s nothing we can do tonight, but we’ll ride out tomorrow to give a look see.”

* * *

The next morning, at first light, Dean, Sam, and Cas set out to where Gordon Walker had set up camp not far from Widow Richardson’s farm, only to find the remains of a smoldering fire and nothing else. 

They road their horses up to the wooden house Mrs. Richardson lived in. Her ranch preceded the founding of the town. She’d come out the year before with her father, but he’d died of the ague, and she was alone on the frontier. She didn’t much care for the town, so Sam hadn’t yet met her in the month they’d been in Perdition.

“What do you want, Marshal?” she asked, opening the door.

“Mrs. Richardson,” Cas began, tipping his hat to the widow. “I don’t believe you’ve met my deputies, Dean”—Dean also tipped his hat—“and Sam Winchester.”

Sam had expected an old crone by the descriptions of her temperament, but she was hardly older than him and real pretty. She had a slim face and curly brown hair, and her brown plaid dress displayed a figure any lady would have been proud of. He was so busy staring, he forgot to acknowledge the widow, so he tipped his hat, but overcompensated and knocked the blasted thing off his head. She snickered, but recovered her blank face quickly, as he replaced the hat.

“We were wonderin’” Cas continued. “If you’d seen anything suspicious last night or this mornin’? 

She hummed thoughtfully, her intelligent eyes examining the two Winchesters. “My head cowhand had to round up a hundred missing head. Fence was cut.”

“Whereabouts?” Dean asked.

“East fence, ‘bout two miles down.” That wasn’t far from where Walker had made camp.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Cas said, as the door was shut in his face.

“Well, she’s charming,” Dean joked, but Sam had liked her fire. It took a strong woman to survive on the frontier alone.

“Her husband died at Andersonville.” Sam knew that was a notorious Confederate prison, but from the looks on Dean’s and Cas’s faces, it meant something different to them than it ever could to Sam. He’d come to realize, since arriving in Perdition, that the things that had been different about Dean when he returned from the war were things that he shared with his old captain: the haunted look in his eyes where he’d stare off into the distance for minutes at a time, the way he peered around corners like waiting for an ambush, and how he didn’t like to talk about any of it. Suddenly, all those things were put into context, and Sam felt like he knew Dean better for it.

The two cowhands offered no extra information that their boss hadn’t already given the lawmen. 

“What time did you find the fence broken?”

“The fence?” one of them drawled. “Checked the perimeter at first light.”

“Cows were likely out all night, though,” the other disagreed. “Given how far they wandered.”

Cas and Dean shared a loaded glance. That was another thing they did that Sam had come to notice. Sometimes they seemed to communicate without words. It was one thing when Sam and Dean did things like that; they were brothers who had grown up together. It was an entirely different experience when someone who was still a stranger to Sam could read his brother like an open book.

“We’d like to check out Mrs. Richardson’s land,” Cas said in a tone that bore no refusal. “If that’s fine with you lot.”

“Don’t know why,” the first one said. “But sure, as long as the widder don’t mind.”

Mrs. Richardson owned a fair amount of land, so it was quite a ride, over grassy prairie and past grazing cattle, who mooed plaintively at the intruders. Cas’s eagle eyes spotted a trail of what he said were horse tracks, but Sam couldn’t figure how he could tell them apart from the cattle tracks everywhere else. Nevertheless, they followed them until they disappeared into the mud.

“Look,” Dean breathed, pointing off into the distance.

Sam saw the horse first, but then he could make out a figure at the lead. There appeared to be a stream that wove through Mrs. Richardson’s land, and the fugitive was trying to get his horse to wade through it, to no avail. Dean put the spurs to his horse, and galloped ahead, Cas following just behind. Sam was left to pick up the rear, as his larger size and inexperience left him a mediocre horseman. From the distance, he could see Dean reach the fugitive and see them scuffle along the opposite bank of the stream, as Cas reached them and dismounted, rushing to join the fray. Sam put his horse to a gallop, nearly becoming unseated by the sudden speed.

“Dean!” Cas cried, the panicked sound sending fear to Sam’s heart.

Sam brought his horse to a hasty stop and tumbled to the ground. He righted himself and rushed to his brother, just as Cas was pulling Walker up by the scruff. “Dean?” Sam asked, crouched down by Dean’s side. He was alive, but he was clutching his side, and Sam could see his palm was shiny with blood.

“He stuck me,” Dean gasped. Walker’s bloody knife was on the ground, next to Dean, and Sam pocketed it before helping his brother up. Dean was wobbly on his feet, pushing through obvious pain. Cas tied Walker’s hands to his horse with rope he carried for the purpose and was immediately back at Dean’s side. 

Dean had to get back to town where they could see to his wounds, but he couldn’t sit up in his own saddle due to the pain. He had to ride with Cas, since Sam was already too large for his horse—and too clumsy, while Sam led both the prisoner and Dean’s ride. Cas kept Dean steady between his legs, maneuvering his horse only with the reins, while Dean leaned against his torso. Sam was struck again by their familiarity and trust, and a how a stranger to him was so close to his brother.

“You’re fine,” Sam could hear Cas say over the hoofbeats of their horses. “You been through worse. I been shot four times and stabbed three, and I’m still kickin’.”

“You were shot three times. Twice at Fredericksburg and once at Spottsylvania Court House,” Dean countered with a groan.

“Some bastard got me in the shoulder last Fall,” Cas explained. “Had to dig out the bullet on my own, too, since I was a wanted man at the time.” Sam saw Dean whip his head around to face Cas, almost hitting his nose in the process, but Cas only shrugged. “Misunderstanding.”

“Sure,” Dean chuckled, ending on another pained groan.

It seemed as though the whole town knew about the posse, so when they rode back into town, a crowd was waiting for them along Main Street. Walker kicked out at an inquisitive passerby, who was probably trying to tear off a piece of his clothing as a souvenir or payback. After his dull cry of pain, the rest of the crowd backed up to let them pass unharassed.

At the jailhouse, Cas dismounted first, and let Dean all but drop into his arms. The marshal was stronger than he looked, and took Dean’s weight without a problem. He supported Dean into the jailhouse, while Sam dealt with the prisoner. He shoved the man through the door, taking the iron key off the wall and pushing him towards the cell with little care.

“If my brother dies or is invalided, I’ll see you persecuted to the highest court,” Sam warned. 

Walker looked him right in the eye and spit on the ground just next to Sam’s foot. The cell door closed with a resonant clang, leaving Walker to circle around his cell. Sam wanted to check on his brother, but a knock on the door took his attention instead.

He found Benny Lafitte at the door, while the rest of the crowd waited a good twenty-five feet away. “Your brother didn’t look too good,” Benny said. “I came to see what I could do for him.” 

“Dean is fine. It’s just a surface wound,” Sam answered coldly. He didn’t have the time to deal with Benny’s nonsense. 

“I take care of the men on the trail,” Benny explained. “Stitchin’ up things, that sort. Learned my trade in the prison camp, takin’ care of the wounded. Doc taught me everything I know—I can help.”

“We don’t need your help,” Sam clarified and shut the door in the Southerner’s face.

* * *

“Jesus, that hurts,” Dean said through the pain. He’d gotten his shirt off with great difficulty; Cas had to undo the buttons on the yoke for him. Dean was certain he’d have passed out, not from the pain, but from the warm touch of Cas’s fingers and their slow drag up his chest.

“Don’t be a child,” Cas admonished, but there was no heat behind it. “You’re a battle-hardened veteran.”

“I never been stabbed before,” Dean whined, taking a swig from the whiskey bottle Cas handed him. “I wasn’t as lucky as you.”

“You nearly died at Gettysburg.”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean breathed. The memories of that battle weren’t anything he was ready to think about again. Especially with Cas so near, smelling of gunpowder and grass.

“Bite down on this,” Cas ordered, sticking the handle of a horse whip into Dean’s mouth. “We’ll having matchin’ scars, Dean. Remember that bayonet I took to the side at Morton’s Ford?”

Dean mumbled a yes through the leather in his mouth. He’d never forget watching Cas go down, slipping into the icy water, which was turning red with his blood. Dean fought against the rebels, not knowing if Cas was already dead. It was probably one of his lowest points in the war.

“Still haven’t forgiven Hays for that disaster,” Cas added conversationally. 

"I think about that every time I go to the town that’s named for him.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh despite the pain, the sound muffled by his gag. He didn’t have any ill feelings towards their old commander. It was appropriate that the general that had been so key to their time together in the war would give his name to the first place they’d seen each other in years.

* * *

_**Hansbrough’s Ridge, near Stevensburg, Virginia, March 1, 1864** _

_It was another cold day on the slopes of the ridge where they had been camped during the winter months. The dreary days normally filled with illness and hunger had only been broken by the ill-fated ford through the Rappidan that had resulted in so many casualties. Dean had been lucky, only ending up with a bad gash on his head. It was healing up nicely, but his stitches still necessitated a few trips to the regiment’s surgeon._

_The Surgeon’s tent housed quite a few men who had incurred worse injuries, as the regiment had taken a heavy hit while trying to cross the icy river. Artillery and riflefire had given way to a hand to hand fight, a mess of bayonets and fists. Dean had gotten a rifle butt to the skull during the commotion._

_“Hey, Doc,” he said jovially, ignoring the groans of dying men behind the curtain._

_“How’s the head?” the surgeon asked, pointing to Dean’s bandaged forehead._

_“Lookin’ good,” he shrugged._

_The surgeon indicated for him to sit down in an empty chair and began to remove the bandage wrapped around Dean’s head. “You’re healing well; these stitches can come right out.”_

_On the other side of the curtain, the injured and sick men continued to groan and wheeze. A man coughed wetly, but the surgeon ignored it all to take a pair of scissors and tweezers to Dean’s head where he sat._

_“Captain Milton doing well, sir?” Dean asked, forcing casualness into his tone._

_“He’s also healing up nicely. He’s getting his bandages changed by Mrs. Wagner, one of the laundresses. She is helping me today since Daniel is doing poorly again. I had to take his arm this morning.”_

_Dean grimaced in solidarity for his fellow soldier. He tried to peer behind the curtain to catch a glimpse of Cas back there, but the doctor still had a strong grip on his head, keeping him in place as he continued to remove the stitches._

_“Can I see him?”_

_“Daniel?” the surgeon asked sharply._

_“Nah,” Dean breathed. “My captain, sir. We fought side by side in the river”—he pointed to the healing wound on his head—“and I want to see how he’s doing for myself.”_

_“I suppose,” the doctor answered thoughtfully. “As soon as I’m finished.”_

_Once the last stitch was out, Dean shot up and ducked behind the curtain before the surgeon could change his mind. Dean’s heart raced as he searched the cots for Cas’s familiar build, but there was no sign of him._

_“Winchester,” a voice said from one of the nearby cots._

_Dean turned towards the sound. “Caleb,” he said. “How are you doing?”_

_Caleb let out a rattling cough. “I’ve been better, sir.”_

_“Is Captain Milton around?” Dean asked, as if Cas could just walk off with a wound to his side._

_“Officers are behind that curtain,” Caleb answered, pointing to the far side of the tent and coughing again._

_“Take care,” Dean said distractedly and headed for the curtain._

_When Dean ducked behind the curtain, he found Cas immediately. He was sitting upright, and his wool shirt was off, the blood-stained bandage wrapped around his middle standing out from his olive skin. Mrs. Wagner, the laundress for Company H, was carefully removing it, unwinding the cloth from Cas’s body. He was facing the wrong way for Dean to see how the wound was doing—for which he was embarrassingly grateful, but the pink, puckered scars from when Cas had been shot at Fredericksburg stood out from the otherwise smooth skin of his left arm._

_“Dean,” Cas breathed as he looked up to see his visitor, his face softening in a way that made Dean’s heart tighten._

_“Captain,” Dean acknowledged, as if that word alone could sum up all he felt for Cas._

_Cas seemed to snap out of something at the use of his rank. “Sergeant,” he said formally. “What brings you to the surgeon’s tent today? I hope you don’t feel poorly.”_

_“No, sir. I had the surgeon see to my stitches.” He pointed to his head, unnecessary though it was. Cas knew exactly where Dean had been injured, even though, at the time, he should have been more concerned with his own bleeding side._

_“Dean, do you know Alfie Wagner’s mother?”_

_Dean turned to the woman who was now replacing Cas’s old bandage with a new one. Dean didn’t know her, though he’d seen her around. Alfie wasn’t in their company, and his mother would be a laundress for his company, just like one of Company A’s laundresses was Daniel’s wife, Adina. All of the laundry women were mothers or wives of the men who served, and it was always rough to return to camp after a battle when their loved ones were among the casualties, especially since they often helped the surgeon deal with the wounded. Private Wagner was still in one piece, however, being one of the new recruits drummed up after Gettysburg and not having seen a lot of fighting._

_“Sergeant,” she said seriously, but her manner turned soft when she turned back to Cas. She had a great deal of affection for him since he saved her son from Jonah Engels’ fists the previous summer. Her hand tenderly touched his shoulder, lingering for far too long. Her son was hardly eighteen, and she was still in the prime of womanhood, so her attention was not motherly._

_The worst part was that Cas seemed to revel in the attention. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Wagner,” he said, his eyelids heavy. He placed his hand on top of hers, gently rubbing her fingers. How could Cas encourage her attentions like that? Dean seethed with jealousy, his insides eviscerated. The worst part was that Cas didn’t even seem to notice Dean’s reaction, so focused was he on the lady’s attentions._

_Handsome Cas could have any choice of women; why would he have any interest in Dean? Dean felt like a fool for even allowing himself to imagine that Cas wanted him, not when it was unnatural._

_“Dean, are you unwell?” Cas’s deep voice cut through Dean’s swirling thoughts._

_“No, sir,” Dean stammered. “I should get back for drills.”_

_“Dean…” Cas replied imploringly._

_“I’m glad you’re healing well, sir,” Dean said, already turning on his heels. “I hope to see you back out there, soon.”_

* * *

**Perdition, Kansas, May, 1871**

“I do this all the time to myself,” Cas told Dean as he made the first stitch. “You’ll be fine. It looks worse than it is.” That was a lie, of course, as Dean’s wound was quite serious. “Though, you might want to take a room at Miss Ellen’s for a few weeks, since you’ll be an invalid.”

Dean still had the whip handle muzzling his mouth, so he couldn’t reply, but he made a rude gesture with his hand nonetheless. Cas chuckled and continued sewing the wound shut. Dean was going to be fine; the knowledge of which steadied Cas’s hand. He’d had a flashback to the war when Dean had fallen, and it had taken every ounce of self-restraint he had not to end Walker right there. He hadn’t brought Dean to Perdition just to lose him at the first sign of trouble.

Cas finished up the last stitch, and got a strip of cotton to wrap around Dean’s middle. He had Dean hold his side as Cas wound the cloth. The intimacy of the action had Cas’s face reddening. He hadn’t brought Dean to Perdition for that, either. Cas had to step away and let Dean tie off the ends of the bandage himself. 

At that moment, Sam threw open the door, and Cas used his interruption as an opportunity not to focus on Dean. 

“He wants to talk to you,” Sam announced, paper sack in hand. “I didn’t even have to search him; he turned over the money.”

Cas frowned at the fugitive’s odd behavior. “It was worth nearly killing Dean to keep the money, but he just handed it over after?”

“He says he didn’t know we were the law,” Sam shrugged. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on, but he won’t talk to me ‘bout it.” 

Cas glanced over at Dean, who was struggling with his bandage. “Help your brother, I’ll deal with Walker,” he barked and left the brothers to it.

“You Cas Milton?” Walker sneered from his cell, watching Cas with narrowed eyes as he approached.

“Yes,” Cas frowned. “You wanted to talk to me?”

“I thought you was some sort of famous gunslinger. How come you didn’t shoot me—you gone yellow?”

Cas pressed up against the bars, lowering his voice threateningly. “I got the law behind me, I don’t need to shoot you.”

“You have gone yellow,” Walker scoffed. “You ain’t nothin’.”

“Why’d you steal the money?” Cas pressed on, forcing himself to ignore the insult.

“I needed it,” Walker answered.

“The town needed it, too,” Cas scoffed.

“I needed it more.” He backed up and sat on the cot in the cell, playing his fingers through the rough wool blanket. “I know how it is; you ain’t goin’ to help me.”

He suddenly looked much younger, almost innocent. Cas knew it could be a ruse, as he had himself used his wide eyes to beguile and mislead many a time before turning legitimate.

“Try me,” Cas growled. He narrowed his eyes, and the two men stared, the iron bars between them, in a face off Cas had known many times before. Only this time, no guns were drawn—it was a nice change.

“I came out West with my sister ‘bout three months ago. She’s my responsibility, and I’ve failed her,” Walker began, genuine emotion coloring his voice. He cleared his throat and went on. “We were set upon other side of the Arkansas—six men, bandanas over their faces. I fought back, but what could I do? I woke up, bleeding from my head, my sister gone. They wanted a ransom. Took me two days to find anyone who’d read the damned note and tell me what they wanted—I’ve never seen 300 dollars, where am I supposed to find it? So I stole it.”

Cas thought instantly of his own sister, once so dear, and now a faraway stranger. “Where’s your sister now?”

“I don’t know,” Walker insisted. “That was two weeks ago, and I ain’t heard nothin’ since. Pardon me for takin’ things into my own hands.”

“And now you’re a criminal,” Cas pointed out roughly. “Whatever help we could have given you, you’ve given that up when you stabbed my deputy. Your fate is in the hands of the Sheriff, now. We’ll do what we can for your sister.”

Cas turned to go back to the room where Dean was; he’d send Sam to fetch Bobby from his property to deal with the fugitive.

“They call themselves the Knights of Hell,” Walker called after him.

* * *

While Dean recovered from his wound, Cas and Sam scoured the area for any sign of Miss Walker or the supposed Knights of Hell her brother had blamed for her disappearance. Not a soul had ever heard of them, however, nor remembered a young negro woman and her brother. Walker would offer no more clues, swearing that he knew no more than what he had already offered, and, a few weeks later, his Bobby-pronounced sentence was up. He had hightailed it out of town faster than a rabid raccoon loose in a dance hall, disappearing into the frontier as suddenly as he had first shown up in town. The lawmen of Perdition had little reason to consider his story anything other than an elaborate lie to cover his own misdeeds. If any of his tale had been true, it would come out in the end.

Sam had joined with Cas’s insistence that Dean take a room at Miss Ellen’s until he recovered. He had to admit a soft bed was a luxury after weeks of sleeping on an old army cot, so it wasn’t too bad. It was going to be hard to give that up when he moved back to the jailhouse; perhaps he’d get started on building a bed frame for himself once he was back to full health. That couldn’t come fast enough.

It wasn’t as if he hated it at the brothel. He hadn’t taken any of the girls up on their offers, being that he wasn’t interested. Jo had become like a little sister, and Dean had grown as overprotective of her as her mother was. Just the other day, that overprotectiveness had meant Dean rushing into her room and pulling a customer off her who was being rough. Ellen had scolded him in front of the girls and any customers eavesdropping, but she’d pulled Dean to her bosom like only his ma had once they were alone. Donna could beat any man at poker, to the point that no one in town was willing to play her, but she was willing to teach Dean all of her tricks if he joined her at the poker table. 

Meg, however, was still a problem. His room was right next to hers, and she put on quite a show for her customers. She was with a man now, and the sound of the bed slamming against the wall was driving him crazy. He was trying to write up the report on Gordon Walker’s case for the records. Cas insisted on running a legitimate police department, and, while that included refusing to take bribes and giving every man a fair trial, it also included more paperwork than the entirety of the Union Army. Dean should have moved back to the jailhouse, but Martin Creaser was on a bender again and insisted on singing The Battle Hymn of the Republic over and over. Even the most patriotic man would have been sent running. Cas wasn’t around either, so Dean felt he had perfect reasoning to leave Sam to watch the jail.

There was another slam of the bed, followed by a pair of low moans. Dean slammed a fist against the shared wall, but Meg just moaned louder in response. She was making a lot of fuss, even for her, and it was going to force Dean into madness. Another low moan was followed by a high shriek, and Dean was on his feet to tell her to quiet down before he gave it another thought.

He stormed into the hall and threw open the curtain to her room. He hadn’t known what he was expecting, but he was surprised by the sight that greeted him nonetheless. Meg was facing the head of the bed, straddling a male form, whose dark head was buried in her bosom. Dean didn’t know people did it that way. It wasn’t how animals on the farm mated, and it wasn’t how Dean had the one time he’d been with a lady. The man underneath her was completely nude, only his broad, muscular back visible to Dean’s eyes, but Meg had kept what little clothing she usually wore on. Her chemise was thrown open, the unbuttoned flaps fluttering with each movement as they framed the dark hair her hands were combing through, and her skirts were draped around the man’s hips, hiding the act from Dean’s prying eyes.

She kissed the top of the man’s head, which was almost tender, and even more of a surprise than the pair’s position. The man fell back to lie flat on the bed, and two things happened: Meg caught sight of Dean in the doorway, and Dean realized the man lying with her was Cas. His eyes were closed tightly in pleasure, and he let out a deep, satisfied groan as she moved on top of him.

Meg gave Dean a smirk as he stood there in shock, but she didn’t say anything to Cas, and he still hadn’t noticed Dean watching. She lifted up her skirts, so Dean could see where they were joined, and then leaned back so he could see the wet slide of Cas’s cock inside her. All the blood in Dean’s body rushed downward, leaving him lightheaded and hard in his trousers. She let out a breathy moan—this time for Dean’s sake?—and let her skirts drop so she could focus on bouncing up and down on Cas’s cock. Even through the fog of his jealousy, Dean could tell Cas felt good inside her, as she couldn’t keep up her smug façade any longer, letting loose a genuine whine as Cas flattened his feet against the bed for leverage. His face was still tight with bliss, his hips were working, thrusting up into her, and Dean wished she’d move her skirts again so he could see.

In that moment, he hated her more than he’d ever hated another person in his life. He didn’t have it in his heart to hate Cas, even though he was the one plunging his cock into her like she held the secret to life itself. Cas leaned forward again, taking one of Meg’s sweet pink buds between his plush lips. She let out another genuine moan, softer than the ones Dean was used to hearing through the wall, as Cas’s tongue flicked out to taste her skin. Dean’s knees nearly buckled, and it was only then that he realized he’d started rubbing himself through his trousers.

Meg made eye contact with him again, smug smirk still in place on her pretty face. “You know, I usually charge a dollar to watch, Deputy,” she brayed.

Cas turned his face to the door, following her eyeline.

“Dean,” he growled, his voice throaty and low. “I…” He twitched with pleasure, as Meg moved above him again, and he seemed to realize he was still inside her. She pulled him towards her and captured that perfect mouth with her own

Dean turned right around without another word and went back to his room. The two lovers continued as if he had never been caught watching. He could hear Cas finish with a desperate groan not a moment later. He didn’t touch himself. Cas seeing him watch had made him go soft.

A few minutes later, the footsteps in the hall told him that Cas was leaving, and he ventured out of his room again. Meg was cleaning things up from her visitor, but she stopped to give Dean a pointed look.

“Hope you enjoyed the show,” she smirked. 

Dean ignored her with a roll of his eyes. “What are you doin’ with Cas, Meg?”

“You got a real nice view of what I’m doin’, Deputy Winchester, and I saw how you liked it. Guess you’re not too good for us girls, after all. I’d give you a discount.” She dropped the blanket she was holding and raised her skirts above her knees wiggling wantonly. 

“You give Cas a discount?” he asked, frowning at her affected display.

“Cas doesn’t pay,” she said, her face suddenly closed off. “I like him. He’s pretty, his cock ain’t crooked, and he makes me feel all dewy. I know where I can go if I get any trouble. How many ladies in my profession can say that?”

“So you’re usin’ him,” Dean scoffed, his protective instincts coming to the forefront even though his jealousy.

“He’s usin’ me, ain’t he?” she shrugged. “I’m just somethin’ to stick his cock in, same as every other man. At least he’s kind about it.”

Her words hurt more than Dean could say, but his anger at Meg dissipated at them nevertheless.

They weren’t so different after all.


	5. Past Present

**Perdition, Kansas, September 7, 1871**

“It’s too damn hot,” Dean complained. Summer seemed to hang on forever, the air still muggy and thick even as the days grew shorter. 

Cas wiped the sweat off his brow with the hem of his shirt, exposing a flat, muscular swath of stomach. Working in the blistering sunshine, he was sweaty and debauched, stripped down to just his cotton shirt and trousers. Dean tried not to focus on it, as, even months later, he couldn’t get the sight of Cas and Meg out of his mind. On good days, it provided fodder for a session with his own hand; on bad days, he tortured himself with the understanding that he’d never find himself in her position. Now, as Cas sweated enticingly in the oppressive heat, the torture was ever more agonizing.

“Help me with this?” Cas asked, lifting a post into the hole they’d just dug. Dean gripped it, his gloved hand brushing sensually against Cas’s own.

“I’m goin’ to need a break,” Dean whined, once they’d driven the post into place, Cas striking it with a large hammer, his muscles straining through his sweat-soaked shirt.

“Is Sam coming out to help?” Cas asked, squinting into the sun.

“He’s not feeling up to it,” Dean shrugged.

“Sure,” Cas said, understanding in his deep voice. “Was that his first time—?”

“Killin’ a man?” Dean finished. “Yep.

Cas hummed thoughtfully, swatting a fly from his face. “He did good. It ain’t ever easy to take a life, but he did good.”

Perdition was growing and thriving. The train had gotten as far as Newton by July, and a stage coach route was established to Perdition twice a month. With the prosperity, however, more of the kind of trouble that had originally led to Bobby hiring Cas and the Winchester brothers had also come to town. They had been busy through the summer, dealing with the violence. In June, they’d arrested two outlaws who’d tried to rob Ellen’s saloon, injuring Rufus in the process. Twice in July, Bucky Sims shot a man in gambling disputes; each occasion, the man had accused Bucky of cheating. Both men survived, though Asa Fox was never going to use his right arm again. After a short stint in the jail, Bucky went right back to cheating.

The most brazen act of violence, however, occurred a week before, when Wally Stinson was shot in the middle of Main Street over a sum of ten dollars. With no doctor in town and Benny away on the trail, his wounds were beyond the surface stitches anyone else was capable of. He was left to slowly bleed out in his bed. His murderer, a remittance man from England, had fled, but the three lawmen had pursued him, finally cornering him in the alley behind Marv’s general store. During the subsequent shootout, it had been Sam who had made the kill shot, and he was still reeling from the experience.

“This job ain’t easy,” Dean lamented. He scooped a ladle of switchel out of the bucket and gulped it down. Its tangy taste made it all the more refreshing, and the ginger root would help keep them from getting a stomach ache. Dean’s pa had drunk it on the farm—when he wasn’t drinking whiskey. 

“Neither is this one,” Cas sighed, indicating the half-finished fence. “I never knew ownin’ land was so much trouble.”

“At least you won’t have to worry so much about squatters anymore,” Dean shrugged, handing Cas the ladle.

“At this point, if someone built a house on my land, I’d probably shoot ‘em and keep the house.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dean chuckled darkly. 

Cas took a long drink from the ladle; his throat worked as he swallowed, and Dean felt his own mouth go dry again. “This stuff is nice,” he commented idly.

The sun was still high in the sky, beating down on the two men. Dean couldn’t imagine returning to work any time soon. He wanted to strip naked and dive in—

“Hey, Cas, you ever swim in that creek?” Summer rains had turned the creek that ran through Cas’s property into something more of a stream, and Dean couldn’t imagine anything more refreshing.

“I’ve been known to bathe in it when the dust got to be too much,” Cas drawled.

Dean let his jaw drop, even though he’d probably catch flies. He’d definitely made a poor life decision moving into the room at the jail with his brother, with Cas running around his property nude as a jaybird. There was no time like the present to fix that mistake, so he shucked his own sweat-soaked shirt and started to run towards the creek.

“What are you doin’?” Cas called grumpily, running after him.

“Coolin’ off,” Dean shouted over his shoulder. The creek was gurgling appealingly ahead of him. Dean dropped his hands to his trousers, hesitating. Cas had caught up with him; Dean could hear him breathing heavily behind him. “What the hell,” he chuckled, and unbuttoned his trousers, letting them, and the drawers beneath fall to the ground.

“Dean,” Cas said, breathless. It was probably from exertion, running after Dean in the shadow of a long morning of hard labor, but Dean could pretend. He was an expert at pretending, after all.

Dean waded in, the cool water coming up to his chest. He looked up to the bank, only to see Cas stripping off his own clothes, a challenging glint in his eyes. He was still beautiful, the sun directly above them washing out the details of his body, but Dean’s imagination could fill in the rest. The thickness of Cas’s cock against his thigh, however, was impossible to miss. The sight was fleeting however, as he slipped into the water, barely making a ripple as his body dipped below the surface. 

“This was a good idea,” Cas said, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He was floating on his back, the long expanse of his neck and chest visible on top of the water. Dean wanted to taste his smooth skin.

“Mm hmm,” Dean agreed. He let the water rush over him, dunking his head benath the surface, as he’d grown even warmer once Cas had joined him. 

Dean’s cock took interest in Cas being near and naked, but he desperately tried to tamp down his lust. He should have been grateful for what he got. Back during the war, the chance to float in a creek with Cas was an impossible dream. A dragonfly flitted near the surface, and happiness buzzed in Dean’s ears.

* * *

Sam wondered if law enforcement was the right choice for him, even as his brother Dean thrived in it. When he and Cas were on the move, they worked like a flawless team, fluid and perfect. The years they had spent on the battlefield together were evident, as they seemed to read each other’s minds. Cas was a brilliant strategist; he must have been an effective military leader. It had been his plan that had cornered Wally’s murderer, after all, even if it had been Sam’s weapon that had fired the shot.

In the wake of the shootout, Sam couldn’t seem to find his footing. He’d managed to go through a war without taking a life; it seemed a shame to mar that record. The instinct for survival, however, overthrew whatever morality had to offer. Possibly seeing that Sam was struggling, Cas had taken him off active duty. He’d spent most of his work time since doing paperwork and taking statements from witnesses and the occasional victim. Today, for instance, Sam was sent out to Widow Richardson’s place to see about the cattle rustling she’d complained about the previous week.

“You again,” she said when she opened the door to find Sam there.

He tipped his hat—properly, this time—and told her why he was there.

“It’s taken you long enough,” she complained, but she let him follow her into the kitchen of her little wooden house. It was scrubbed clean, scented with the warm sour odor of freshly baked yeast bread.

“The law moves as the law moves,” he said, shrugging and removing his hat.

“Oh yes, I asked for a lawman and I got a philosopher,” she barked. “The rustlers are likely in Texas by now, selling off my cattle.”

“Ma’am, you know they wouldn’t head south to sell cattle. They wouldn’t have gone any farther than Hays City.”

She huffed in annoyance at being caught in an exaggeration. Sam couldn’t blame her; being a widow alone on the prairie would harden any woman. His own mother could butcher a hog and not break a sweat doing it. 

“Before that town moved in here, I never faced these sorts of problems.”

“That be true, ma’am, but with the train coming, settlement was inevitable. At least you have access to the benefits of civilization.

She rounded on him. “Now listen here, you overlarge buffoon, my ranch is entirely self-reliant. I keep chickens and pigs, I grow my own vegetables. Only thing I get from town is wheat flour and trouble.”

“We’re here to take care of that trouble,” Sam sighed. He knew a losing battle when he saw one. It was a pity she was such a beauty, as she was about as welcoming as saddle sores. “I’m sorry we didn’t get here when you first complained. We had some trouble in town last week.”

The memory of it was still so strong—pulling the trigger, the moment the bullet hit its mark sending Mick flying to the ground, blood spurting everywhere, the look on Dean’s and Cas’s faces when they realized Sam had fired the kill shot.

“I heard,” she replied testily. “Shootout in the middle of town. Glad to know the Marshal is keeping its citizens safe. Bobby Singer should never have hired a gunslinger to police the town.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, you weren’t there. Cas was an Army Captain and has a reputation for bravery and honor, even as a gunfighter. We cleared the area of everyone else before we pursued the outlaw. No one was in any danger from our weapons except the guilty party.”

“Well, you’ll pardon my distrust of the Union army,” she said harshly. “They didn’t protect my husband when they should have. You army too?”

Sam felt his face go red. “No, ma’am,” he stuttered. “I stayed home to tend the farm with my pa. He died in ’63.”

It was a lie, but it was a lie based on what Sam was supposed to have done all those years before. His regrets pressed on him as if he were drowning. He took down her information and left.

* * *

_**Lawrence, Kansas, April, 1862** _

_“I’m bored,” Ruby groaned. “Ain’t there anythin’ interesting to do out here.”_

_“I got to help my pa seed the south field,” Sam replied._

_“Back home in St. Louis, I’d have lots of things to do.” She tossed her head back haughtily, the straw in the loft blowing with the action, catching in her dark hair. She loosened her bun, letting the hair flow over her shoulders. “I know what we can do,” she giggled, tugging Sam towards her._

_Falling forward, he let himself drop on top of her and catch her mouth in a kiss, sighing into it._

_They kissed until he was uncomfortable in his trousers; he pulled away to catch his breath. Ruby’s petticoats were around her thighs and he could see her drawers. She leaned back into the hay, and grabbed Sam’s hand, pulling it between her legs and through the slit in her drawers. Sam went breathless as he felt her warm and damp beneath his fingers, and she let out a wanton moan. Sam was dizzy with lust, and surged forward to kiss her again, this time making little movements with his hand and grinding his groin between her legs. Soon, she was unbuttoning his trousers and pulling him out, and Sam Winchester became a man._

_When they were done, she sighed happily and knocked the hay out of her hair to tie it up in a bun again._

_“I’ve got a friend I think you should meet.”_

_“Yeah?” Sam asked, still in disbelief over what had just happened._

_“I told him about you, about how bad you felt with what the Jayhawkers did in Osceola. He’s real interested in tellin’ you all about how he’s fightin’ for Kansas, still. Would you like to meet him?”_

_“Sure, Ruby,” Sam said, still grinning like an idiot. “I’d love to hear what he has to say.”_

* * *

**Perdition, Kansas, September 29, 1871**

Sam put another bag of beans on the counter. He was sick of beans, but neither Cas nor Dean could cook much else, and Sam couldn’t cook at all. The look on his brother’s face when Dean tried to keep down the burnt, dry cornbread Sam had made the last time he tried still haunted Sam’s dreams. He longed for some of his ma’s bread, soft and pillowy out of the oven and spread with fresh butter. He hadn’t had any bread since Bobby had offered up a loaf their first night in town.

As Marv added up his purchases, the next customer started placing their groceries on the counter, too. Sam was about to say something rude, when he noticed a cake of yeast being placed by a fine, small hand.

“Mrs. Richardson,” Sam said politely. “You looking to bake some bread?”

“Deputy,” she acknowledged. “I thought I’d bring some to Sunday’s supper.”

Benny Lafitte had returned to town the previous week, and, with him, came the return of the weekly chuck wagon cook out. Amelia had never attended before, however. 

“I’m glad to see you’re comin’,” Sam smiled, handing a few dollars to Marv to cover the groceries. He waited in the doorway for Amelia to finish with her purchases. As she collected them, Sam readjusted the box under one arm so he could carry them for her.

“I thought about what you said,” she mused, as he balanced her flour and yeast under his other arm. “‘Bout the town. It ain’t the worst place to be near, I suppose. I been lonely for a long time. Maybe I should give it a chance.”

“Maybe you should,” Sam replied. “How long has it been?”

“Since my father died?”

He coughed awkwardly. “Since your husband.”

She froze where they were walking side by side; Sam ended up a step ahead of her, tripping over his feet trying to stop himself and nearly upending the groceries. “I don’t like to talk about that,” she whispered.

Sam rushed to her side, putting an arm around her as well as he could with it full of groceries. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” he started, but she put a hand up to silence him.

“It’s a simple story, Deputy Winchester. My husband was drafted, captured, and sent to a Confederate prison where they starved him.”

“He died in prison,” Sam said. He remembered what Cas had said about her husband. “Andersonville?”

“No,” she breathed, so quiet Sam could barely make it out. She looked up at him with bleary, red-rimmed eyes. “He was paroled; he was coming home. They loaded two thousand men onto a steamboat and sent them upriver. They never made it. I think about him, if he survived the explosion, slowly drowning in freezing water, no hope when hope had been all he’d had for years.”

“I thought…” Sam began, but a soft hand on his arm stopped him.

“I told Sheriff Singer he died in prison. Wouldn’t you?”

Sam thought of the untruths he’d already told to hide his own past. “Yes, ma’am, I suppose I would.”

* * *

Cas couldn’t sleep. Usually, when that happened, he headed over to Ellen’s and worked out his stresses into Meg’s pliant body. He was too tired to move, however, so he just lay there, staring up at the white canvas of his tent home.

He’d thought bringing Dean to Perdition would finally make somewhere feel like home, but still nothing felt right. Nothing except work, anyway. With guns in their hands, he and Dean were an unstoppable force, just like they’d always been. It was during the in-between times—while eating bacon and biscuits for breakfast, polishing their guns, or writing out paperwork—that the atmosphere became oppressive. While active, Dean was as he ever had been, full of vitality and vigor, but in these peaceful moments, he did nothing but stare at Cas. There was something in his stare, sure, something that terrified Cas more than any gun-toting outlaw, but there was distance there, too. Maybe they were both trying to capture a time that didn’t exist anymore, when a common enemy was enough to unite them.

Still exhausted and unable to fall asleep, Cas let his hand drift southward. He was already hard, probably from thinking about Meg’s sweet flesh, so he circled his cock with his hand and pulled upward. His concerns about Dean, however, still weighed heavily on his mind as he stroked himself, and he had to put a stop to that. Instead, he forced himself to think about the last time he’d taken Meg, when he’d used his tongue to explore her womanly folds, surprising her with the unexpected pleasure, then plunged inside of her to seek his own. It was a good memory, but it would not stick, and, instead, he came with long suppressed thoughts on his mind and a single name on his lips.

He was still breathless from his release when the sound of galloping hoofbeats echoed through the quiet night. Curious, he pulled on his trousers, a shirt, and his boots, lit a lantern, and walked towards Main Street. The horse was tied to the rail outside of the jail, but the rider was not to be seen. Cas rushed into the jailhouse, his lantern casting light on the scene in front of him. The mysterious rider was in the empty jailhouse, and both deputies were recently roused and also hurrying to see about the commotion.

“Marshal,” the man said, turning as Cas stepped through the door. “The stagecoach has been robbed!”

“Where?” Dean asked, jumping to action. His trousers were hastily pulled up and his shirt was untucked and possibly backwards.

“This side of the Arkansas,” the man answered. “Yesterday afternoon, after setting off that morning. I rode as fast as I could.”

Dean lit the gas lamps and the room was illuminated, bringing the visitor into clear view. Ezra was a driver for the stage, but his face was bloodied and bruised. Upon seeing the witness’s state, the three lawmen rushed to action, Dean and Sam heading for the paddock behind the jail to saddle and ready. Cas, meanwhile, headed across the street to where Benny Lafitte’s wagon was parked, Ezra supported by his shoulder.

He knocked on the wooden base of the covered wagon. A light illuminated the canvas, revealing movement within; a face groggily popped out from behind it. “What do you—Marshal!” Benny said, jumping into action when he saw Ezra’s sorry state.

“The stage has been robbed,” Cas explained, as Benny clambered down from his wagon home. “Can you help?”

“Yes, chief,” Benny said, sparing no time for hesitation and taking Ezra by the shoulder. “I got this, brother.”

“Can you alert Bobby at first light? Have him send a wagon. There may be dead or stranded passengers.”

Benny nodded solemnly, and Cas was on his way.

The road was illuminated only by the moon, but it was clear from a few months of stages driving along it, and the horses could see well in the dark, so it was a trouble-free journey. Nonetheless, Cas kept his rifle at the ready, lest the robbers make themselves known. They rode for hours, only stopping to rest the horses and let them graze on prairie grasses. Dean had been prudent enough to gather provisions—day-old biscuits and jerky—and they gnawed on the food as their horses trotted to the stage.

Even bringing their horses to their limits, the lawmen didn’t reach the stage until high noon the following day. Road weary and hungry, they dismounted their horses to see the carnage left in the outlaws’ wake. The other stage driver was dead; his body lay on the ground vulnerable to the sun and scavengers. His was the only body however, as the passengers were still huddled inside the coach. 

“I’m going to check out the body,” Dean said, already stepping towards the fetid corpse.

Cas acknowledged him with a nod, and led Sam to open the door to the coach, so they could talk with the passengers. At the lawmen’s approach, however, the door cautiously opened, and a young woman stepped out into the sunshine. She was finely dressed in pale blue silk, her hair extravagantly curled, though somewhat depleted after a day in the stagecoach. For all her finery, however, she had a take-charge, practical manner about her, like most frontier women did. Next to him, Sam froze, and Cas looked up to see his mouth open in surprise.

“Ruby?” Sam gasped.

* * *

_**Somewhere outside of Lawrence, Kansas, April 16, 1862** _

_Ruby led Sam up to a small farmhouse. He’d had to sneak out of the house and steal his pa’s wagon to make the trip, picking her up at a street corner where no one was awake. Her directions had taken them outside the town, where the roads were rough and even the lantern couldn’t provide enough light. There were no lights on in the house, either, but after three knocks, the door opened to reveal a well-kept parlor. Someone had made the effort to put black paper in all the windows, so it looked like the occupants were asleep, but the room was, in fact, brightly lit with oil lamps._

_They stepped into the house, shutting the door behind them. The room was full of men; Sam recognized a few faces from town: Max Miller, Ansem Weems, and Scott Carey. There were a lot men Sam didn’t know, but Ruby seemed to know them all, greeting each man with a demure smile. Some of the them were armed with rifles, though most weren’t, and they all looked happy to see the new arrivals._

_“Sam, these are my friends,” Ruby said. She went around the room, naming names, but Sam could only catch a handful of them. A lot of them were from Missouri, Sam realized, but instead of inspiring fear or cautiousness, as perhaps it should have, Sam could only wonder if any of them had lost their worldly possessions when Lane rode into Osceola._

_Ruby and Sam settled into two empty chairs, a man younger than Sam shifting over to make room, and an air of anticipation filled the room. Soon enough, an interior door opened and a man stepped in. He was blonde, with a clever face, probably not ten years older than Dean, and he commanded the room without the need for a single spoken word._

_When he did speak, it was with quiet determination. “I want to tell you a story. A story about freedom, about being able to live our lives in a way determined by ourselves, not a distant government.”_

_After his speech, the man came over to meet Sam. He took his hand; it was soft, not calloused and rough like Sam’s was from helping his father on the farm._

_“I’m Nick,” he said, releasing Sam’s hand. “Ruby has said such impressive things about you, Sam Winchester. It’s a shame such a promising young man has to toil on a farm when you could be doing so much more.”_

* * *

**Near the Arkansas River, Kansas, 1871**

The day Sam had met Nick had changed everything. Ten days later, Nick received official status from the Confederacy as a partisan ranger and made his private war public. He was savage in his battles, and soon had a new name, given to him by the Union troops and Jayhawkers he fought against.

They called him Lucifer. 

He was Lucifer when he raided Union supply lines. He was Lucifer when he pulled Jayhawkers out of their homes and murdered them. He was Lucifer when he helped Quantrill murder the men of Lawrence. He was Lucifer when he gunned down John Winchester knowing exactly who he was. He was Lucifer when he bragged about it to Sam after. 

Ruby had brought Sam into it. He had followed her to Missouri, run away from home, abandoned his family. He never saw his father again. Not alive, at least.

“Sam Winchester, as I live and breathe,” Ruby drawled. “It’s been years. What are you doing this far west?”

“Sam?” Cas asked, putting a hand out like he was calming a wild animal. “Do you know this woman?”

“This is Ruby Malbrand,” Sam said, his mind still on the past.

“It’s Deville, now,” Ruby said demurely. A well-dressed gentleman stepped off the coach behind her. “My husband.”

“Marshal Cas Milton,” Cas said, tipping his hat politely. “You know my deputy, Sam Winchester, I suppose. I hear you had a bit of trouble, ma’am.”

“It was awful,” she simpered. “Armed men, at least twelve of them. They shot the driver, they took my pearls and everything else of value.” She clutched at her neck to where a necklace no longer sat around it.

“Cas?” Dean called out from behind the coach, where the body lay. Cas stepped away to join him, but their voices carried anyway. “Rifle shot to the head, clean shot. From the angle, I’d say the shooter was on horseback; given the number of shots to the coach”—the two men walked back around the coach, as Dean pointed to the many rifle marks marring its side—“I’d say there were at least eight men.”

“Twelve,” Ruby clarified.

“Ma’am,” Dean acknowledged, tipping his hat, unaware of her true identity. He’d been far away on the battlefield when Sam had first met the girl.

“Dean, this is Ruby.”

There was a quiet pause as Dean processed the news, then, suddenly, he lunged, desperate and angry. “You rebel hussy!”

Cas jumped immediately to action, holding Dean back with his strong arms. “She ain’t worth it, Dean,” he intoned in his low voice. Cas pulled him away, Dean going pliant in the grip of his old Captain. They spoke out of ear shot for a few moments, gesturing wildly. After a few moments, Dean walked away towards the horses, but Cas returned to the coach. “Your brother and I are going to look for tracks before it rains,” he explained. “If you would interview all the passengers, Deputy, get all the information you can.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam breathed, grateful that Cas had removed his brother from the dangerous situation.

The passengers—Ruby, her husband, and two men who were looking to open a hotel in Perdition—all told the same story: twelve masked men on horseback overtook the carriage, shooting the drivers and demanding all valuables. They’d all complied, the two hoteliers handing over all the money they’d brought to found the hotel, and no further violence had occurred. Dean and Cas returned from their futile mission moments before Roy pulled up in Bobby Singer’s wagon. Since it was sixty miles onward to Perdition, but half that back to Newton, it was decided to bring the passengers there, the driver’s body in the wagon beside them. It was only proper to bury him in a proper graveyard, in the town where he’d made his home. Ruby, however, scrunched her nose in disgust at the addition, but she waved Sam goodbye as if their past weren’t the greatest mistake of his life.

“How you doin’?” Dean asked, as soon as the wagon had departed.

“I’ve been better,” Sam sighed, taking off his hat and rubbing his face. The last thing he needed was for his past to come back to haunt him.

* * *

**Newton, Kansas, That Night**

There were a series of tents at the end of the road, and the well-dressed couple headed there. It was too late for propriety, but the shroud of darkness hid their presence. Just outside the tent, a welcoming fire burned, while a pot of coffee boiled on a rack above it. Inside, a group of men counted out their spoils.

“Those pearls are mine,” the woman said as she entered one of the tents. The gentleman with her still had a hold of her arm, and she slipped her way out of it, disgusted at once again having to play Azazel’s wife.

“Ruby,” the chorus of men all greeted her. In the corner, Abbadon scowled at her, as if it were Ruby’s fault that she had been left to tend to the tent instead of riding out to meet the stage.

Lucifer was at the center of it all, counting out the money they’d stolen from the lockbox the hoteliers had brought.

“You know the Perdition Town Marshal?” Ruby asked, sitting down to join her cohorts. Lucifer wasn’t paying her any attention. “Cas Milton?”

“The gunslinger?” one of the men—Ramiel, he was called by the gang—asked. “He’s the bastard who shot off my arm outside of Cheyenne.”

There was a chorus of assent from men in the gang who’d crossed paths with the notorious gunslinger. Ruby’s thoughts, however, were elsewhere. She flounced over to Lucifer and shoved her way between him and Alistair.

“You might know his deputy, boss,” she cooed. “I certainly did.” Lucifer was still focusing on his money, but she’d attracted enough of his attention to continue. “Sam Winchester.”

Suddenly, Lucifer’s attention had turned entirely to her. “Sam Winchester?”

“He rode out to the stage with the Marshal. I saw him myself.”

“Did he suspect anything?” Lucifer barked.

“Nah, I played the damsel in distress,” she replied smugly.

“Perdition, you say?”

“Yes, sir. He and his brother are Milton’s deputies.”

Lucifer stood up, the stolen money still clutched in his hands. “Boys, we’re moving on. We’re heading west, to Perdition.”


	6. Between Heaven and Hell

**Perdition, Kansas, October 1871**

After the attack on the stagecoach, the towns of Newton and Perdition joined forces to provide escorts for all trips. The Marshal of Newton or one of his deputies would ride out halfway, and Cas, Dean, or Sam would meet the stage there and continue the trip to Perdition. Cas thought there wouldn’t be another problem, as he figured the presence of the hoteliers from Kansas City had lured the outlaws to the stage. ‘Course, this meant that it had been an inside job, as someone had tipped off them off to the money.

Dean was returning home that dreary day from escorting a shipment of lumber for Bobby Singer’s new wooden homestead. He’d been gone two days, and Cas was starting to itch for his company. Since Dean had come out to Perdition, they hadn’t spent more than a few hours apart, ‘cept for when they were sleeping. The itch was so bad, Cas had taken to the saloon to drink away his troubles. He invited his other deputy to come with him, hoping that the younger Winchester might get a respite from his own troubles.

The girls had come over to their table, Meg planting herself right in Cas’s lap like she usually did. He wrapped an arm around her tiny waist. She didn’t wear a corset while she was working, so the touch of her soft flesh was almost comforting. Donna was entertaining Sam, but he was still grumpy. Ruby hadn’t made an appearance in town since Sam had seen her on the stage the previous month, but he still jumped at shadows like she’d show up out of nowhere. He should let Donna take him back to her room and work out those feelings.

Rufus had taken to the piano, playing a rollicking dance tune, and Meg was trying to pull Cas to his feet and make him dance with her. Sam and Donna were already on the floor, doing an energetic polka.

“You are a stick in the mud,” Meg pouted.

“So you like to tell me,” Cas intoned, but his attention was taken by the door swinging open, a dry wind ruffling the curtains. Dean walked into the saloon, covered in dust. Cas stood up so quickly, Meg was knocked off balance.

Grumbling, she looked to the door, where Dean was giving Bobby the details on his wood order. “Your precious deputy is home safe and sound, now will you dance with me?”

“I…” Cas hesitated, wanting to rush to Dean’s side and make sure his trip was successful and uneventful. Meg’s words had had the result she’d been after, however, so he relented and joined her in a polka.

“Jo,” Meg called to her fellow prostitute, who was entertaining a few strangers at the corner table. “Make Dean dance with you!”

Jo hopped up eagerly and went to the bar where her mother was pulling Dean a beer from the tap. Beer in hand, he was unceremoniously dragged, along with Bobby, by the young woman towards the back of the bar.

Dean dropped his dusty overcoat onto the chair, and, with a nod to Cas, swung Jo around the dance floor, beaming. All four couples were close in the small area between the tables, the rest of the patrons stomping their feet, clapping hands, and singing along.

Suddenly, Meg backed away to link arms with Jo, pulling her away from Dean, and the two swung around, leaving the two lawmen partnerless. Seeing Meg and Jo dancing together, now doing the polka as a pair, Ellen and Donna did the same. 

Sam looked to Bobby, “Sheriff, would you like to dance?”

His words were met with an uproar of laughter. “I suppose you want to lead, too,” Bobby grumbled, clasping Sam’s hand anyway.

They started doing an exaggerated polka, holding each other at such a distance there was hardly room for them to dance. 

“I think your brother’s lost his mind,” Cas chuckled.

“Aw, let them have their fun,” Dean frowned. “Kid’s been in a funk since that no-good hussy showed up.”

“Some people are not as ready to revisit their past as we were,” Cas said. “Rifles in hand, side by—“ He tumbled forward into Dean, instinct making them clasp arms. Looking behind him to see who had shoved them, he saw Meg wearing a clever grin, proud of her trick. He looked back to find Dean’s face still so near, his strong hands still gripping him tight. Despite the chilly October day, Cas felt his own face warm up.

“If you wanted to dance, Cas, you could have just asked,” Dean quipped, but his cheeks were tinged pink.

Cas was so distracted by the situation, that he hardly noticed that Rufus had finished the song. Familiar chords filled the air, as he began playing a slower, sadder song. Dean looked down at him for one wide-eyed moment, then shoved him away.

As Cas stumbled into a table, Dean marched right over to the piano and ripped the sheet music off the stand. 

“What you got against that song?” Rufus growled. 

“Never you mind,” Dean replied just as angrily. He took a seat at an empty table and crossed his arms. Cas settled in to the table he and Sam had been sitting at across the room, and Meg quickly returned to his lap.

“You’re awful handsome when you scowl, Clarence,” she purred.

“My name is Cas,” he replied testily. She laughed and leaned forward to kiss him. He captured her lips with his own, thrusting his tongue inside her waiting mouth like it belonged to him. She owed him for that little trick on the dance floor, and he would take everything she could give him. 

“Hey,” Dean called from across the room. “Hey!”

Meg pulled away. “What’s your problem?” she shouted back.

“You want to focus on a payin’ customer?” Dean groused, holding up his forgotten beer.

“Oh!” she said, pleased. She hopped off Cas’s lap and flounced over to Dean, dropping into his lap instead.

Cas’s stomach turned, his hands closing into fists, as he watched her nuzzle into Dean’s neck, letting him caress her soft breasts. Jealousy seethed through him; he had half a mind to rip her off him and—he seized up, his thoughts red and confused.

Perhaps it hadn’t been such a grand idea to bring Dean Winchester to Perdition.

* * *

**The Giles Homestead, Western Kansas Frontier, October, 1871**

Karen Giles was certain she made the best sweet potato pie in Kansas. Their crop had come in, and she was swimming in sweet potatoes. She’d even sent her husband to the nearest town to pick up flour and sugar, so she could start off the harvest season right. Tony had grumbled, but he and their nephew made the trip to and from Perdition in a week, and had even brought back enough wood to finish the new barn. They’d told silly stories of the town, how the sheriff had danced with a deputy, but she’d never believe that sort of tall tale. Her husband had surprised her with a new bonnet in a pretty shade of blue, though, and she’d put it on after the pie had baked, in order to welcome her husband in from a long day of finishing the barn with her brother-in-law and nephew.

The men were likely out back washing up for supper, so she was surprised by a knock on the door. She undid the latch and peered out from the door, only holding it open a smidgen. She’d never heard of Indians knocking before they massacred settlers, but she didn’t want to run the risk. Imagine her surprise when she found two women at the door, their clothes dirty and torn, blood-stained shawls thrown over their shoulders. Mrs. Giles let out a gasp at their poor state.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” one of them said, a tall, beautiful woman with flaming red hair. “Can you please help my sister and me?”

Mrs. Giles ushered them in. Their feet were bare and bloodied, and they winced as they walked, the poor dears. “Whatever happened?” she asked.

“We were heading down from Fort Dodge to set up a new homestead west of here,” the other woman explained, as Mrs. Giles poured them each a glass of water. “Our wagon train was attacked by Indians. The men folk…” she hung her head low and didn’t need to say more. The women were lucky to be alive and not kidnapped by the Indians.

“You’re safe, now,” Mrs. Giles reassured them. “My husband and brother-in-law can escort you back to the Fort as soon as you’re recovered.”

“You are too kind, ma’am. Are they in the barn?”

“No, they’re cleaning up at the pump behind the house.”

“Oh,” the red-haired woman said. “We didn’t see no one as we approached the house.”

“Hmm,” Mrs. Giles said thoughtfully. From the south or east, the house and barn would block the view of anyone in the back, but these women had come from the north-west. They would have spotted Tony or one of the other men from that angle. A sense of sudden fear came over her. What if the Indians that had attacked the women’s party were here now? She ran to the door in the back and threw it open. Her husband, his brother, and his nephew were all standing around the pump, looking like they hadn’t a care in the world. Tony gave her a wave, a huge smile on his face. She breathed a sigh of relief, and turned back to her kitchen and her unfortunate guests.

“Mmmm…pie,” a man said, standing brazen as you like in the middle of her kitchen, one finger dipped into the sweet potato pie cooling on the sideboard.

The man had a clever, pointed look about his face, but his eyes were dead and evil. The women didn’t seem surprised or frightened, so he must have been one of the menfolk from their wagon train, but that didn’t make any sense. They implied all the men were dead.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said with no sincerity.

“Who are you?” Mrs. Giles asked, but before anyone could answer, a rifle shot rang out. She tried to go to the back door again, but the women grabbed at her.

A second rifle shot rang out.

Mrs. Giles gasped out a sob. “Who are you, devil?”

A third rifle shot.

“Yes,” the man replied gleefully. “Yes, I suppose you could call me that.” He pulled out a revolver and fired once. Mrs. Giles felt pain like she had never felt before, the world turning pale and icy. She would be reunited with her husband in the afterlife, where they would know no pain, no strife, no hardship.

“Ruby, Abbie, bury them in the garden,” Lucifer ordered, as he cut himself a slice of pie. “Mmmm—sweet potato.”

* * *

**Perdition, Kansas, October, 1871**

Sam had to get away from the jailhouse. Cas and Dean were bickering, and he couldn’t take it any longer. Dean would fill out a piece of paperwork wrong, and Cas would make him do it over again, even though they didn’t really have the paper to spare. Then Cas would drink the last of the coffee without brewing another pot, and Dean would yell at him instead of just making it himself. If only they’d talk about the real reason they were fighting: Meg.

Sam didn’t know if they were both sleeping with her, and he had no interest in finding that out. What he did know was that she’d been paying Cas a lot of attention, and Dean had stolen her right out from underneath Cas’s nose. Now, Sam didn’t have much experience with prostitutes, but he realized that there weren’t but four ladies in town, and a man could easily forget about details when a pretty face showed attention.

A man could forget about a lot when a pretty face showed attention.

One of those pretty faces was making her way down Main Street. Sam crossed the road, so he could catch up with her.

“Mrs. Richardson,” he said, calling after her. 

“Deputy Winchester,” she said as she turned around, a small smile warming her beautiful face. It was like seeing the sun rise.

“Where are you off to this fine day, ma’am?” She had no groceries or other sundries with her.

“I had business at the Land Office,” she explained. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

Sam felt a blush come to his cheeks, but tipped his hat cordially. “Do we have business?”

“Oh,” she exclaimed. “I thought, perhaps…” A hand flew up to her mouth, and she turned around and began to walk away.

Sam reached after her. “Mrs. Richardson, wait—would you like to take a walk with me?”

“Why, yes, I would,” she sighed, but her smile returned in full.

His heart pounding and his palms sweating, Sam took her arm in his and began to lead her along Main Street. Mrs. Richardson was charming and interesting. She knew so much about the raising and caring for cattle and horses and clearly cared greatly for the safety and health of her animals. They spoke of her late husband, of Sam’s mother in Lawrence, and of the changes that were occurring in Kansas.

They stepped off of Main Street, onto one of the side streets that were popping up daily. Only one building was finished on this street, a tobacco shop with very little product displayed in the expensive glass window.

“You should come over for supper sometime,” she said, her eyes lit up wistfully.

“I’d like that very much, Mrs. Richardson,” Sam replied.

“Amelia.”

“Amelia,” Sam repeated, smiling. He leaned in, breathless and hopeful, and placed a soft kiss on her perfect lips. She didn’t move away but put her hand on his arm, as if to hold him there. Everything was perfect for one brief second, but then Sam was hit with an overwhelming dread, as if he seemed to sense Ruby’s presence before he saw her. Perhaps he heard a wisp of a laugh on the October breeze. Perhaps he smelled the scent of lilacs. It wasn’t important because he saw Ruby soon enough, walking down the street arm in arm with her husband.

“Sam,” Amelia said, her touch on his arm tender and warm. “What’s the matter?”

“I…” he began, but he didn’t get the chance because Ruby spotted him immediately.

“Sam,” she said, her voice pleasant and bland. The difference between how she said his name and how Amelia said it was like the darkness of night and the brightness of the new day. “I wondered if we’d meet you today. This is a charming town.”

“It’s a den of iniquity and murder,” Sam replied flatly.

“That’s what we have you for, deputy,” she countered.

Amelia’s face looked just as Sam felt, incredulous and unamused. While Amelia had warmed up to the town, and Sam held quite a fondness for it, it was still on the dangerous frontier and it was far from charming, despite the efforts of its few honest citizens. 

“Are you looking to settle here?” Amelia asked, filling the awkward silence.

“No,” Ruby answered with a laugh. Her husband remained silent, nodding his agreement when necessary. Sam wasn’t surprised that Ruby dominated the relationship; she’d been demanding and controlling during their youthful affair. “We have an appointment at the land office. We may be interested in purchasing land in anticipation of the train coming through here—as an investment.”

Sam released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Ruby wasn’t moving to Perdition; it was still safe. This was just one tiny part of his past coming back to haunt him, but he needn’t fear any more.

“And we’re late,” Ruby’s husband growled. Sam didn’t like him much. He was likely two decades older than her, and, in the sunlight, his light brownish-green eyes looked sickly yellow. Nonetheless, Sam shook his offered hand and said a polite farewell.

“Do you know that couple well?” Amelia asked, watching them walk down Main Street.

“Yes,” Sam admitted. “Only the wife. She was…she was part of my past I’d rather forget.”

“Oh,” Amelia exclaimed.

Her pretty face was set in a frown, and Sam could only imagine what tawdry things she was envisioning. He wasn’t certain if the things she likely thought were better or worse than the truth. If he wanted what was between them to blossom, however, he couldn’t keep secrets from her. He took a deep breath. 

“Ruby was my first sweetheart. But she was involved in anti-Union organizations, and she got me involved. I was young, rebellious, and I thought I knew better than my father about what direction Kansas should take.” 

“You were anti-Union?” she said, aghast.

“You’re not from Kansas, you wouldn’t understand what it was like in the early years, especially in Lawrence. People I knew, friends of my father, killed innocent people because they had a different idea of how things should be. It was horrible, and I was looking for an alternative, and Ruby gave me one. I just didn’t realize what it would cost me. You know about the massacre?”

“Yes,” she said. The distance between them had grown, and Sam didn’t know when she had taken so many steps away from him.

“The leader, he—he shot my father. I came home, then. My brother was away at war; my ma needed me.”

“Your brother was fighting for the Union while you were wandering around with bushwackers?” she accused.

“Amelia,” Sam pleaded.

“Mrs. Richardson,” she corrected and walked away.

* * *

“You’re chewing too loudly,” Dean complained.

“You burned the biscuits,” Cas countered, his mouth still working around the charred biscuit.

“You shouldn’t have dropped the bacon.”

“I cleaned it up,” Cas shrugged. He’d only dropped it because Dean had been crouching by the stove, stoking the fire, and it had made a very appealing—and distracting—picture. 

“Well, there’s dirt still on it,” Dean groused.

“You should sweep the floor more often,” Cas pointed out.

“I don’t have a broom.”

“Then buy a goddamned broom, Dean. Your mother isn’t here to clean up after you.” 

“Fellas, stop,” Sam tried to interrupt.

“I never thought she was,” Dean replied testily, ignoring his brothers placating attempts. “I thought I was supposed to be stopping criminals, not keeping house.”

“Well, since you’re so fond of Meg, now,” Cas said, unable to stop himself. “Perhaps you should marry her and see if she’ll keep it for you.”

“Goddamn it, Cas,” Dean growled. He left his breakfast where it was and stormed out of the room. “I’m going to the saloon.”

“Give Meg my best,” Cas called after him. The outer door slammed shut, with a strength that could have been nothing but purposeful. “I suppose I’m going to have to clean up after you, now.”

“I’ve got it, Cas,” Sam offered, taking the tin plate Dean left behind and dumping the charred and dusty remains of his breakfast into a pail. It was a waste, but it’d go on to feed one of Bobby’s pigs, so it’d become breakfast again sooner or later. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you ‘bout somethin’.”

“Not your brother?” Cas asked with a frown.

Sam let out a frustrated huff. “I’d rather not burden him with this. It’s complicated.”

“I see. Does it involve a certain Confederate temptress?”

Sam hesitated. They’d discussed his troubled past before, but that didn’t mean it was easy for the other man to converse on the subject. Castiel knew how he felt.

“Not exactly. Yes, she’s in town, but I’m more concerned about Amelia.”

“Amelia, as in Mrs. Richardson?” Cas asked, confused.

“I’m interested in courtin’ her, and she appeared to be interested in me courtin’ her. Until yesterday.”

“When you saw Ruby?”

“I told her ‘bout my past, and she’s no longer interested.”

Cas dropped his fork to the table; it clanged as it hit his tin plate. “I’m not sure I’m someone who can give good advice on this subject. I ain’t had a sweetheart since I was a wide-eyed theology student who had never held a gun.” 

“I don’t need to know how to woo her, Cas,” Sam said grumpily. “I just wanted to know how you move on from, you know, the bad parts of your past. Is this how it’s always goin’ to be?”

The first answer that popped into Cas’s head was yes, but even he was savvy enough to know that wouldn’t help Sam’s predicament. Every person who’d heard stories about the famous gunslinger Cas Milton had an idea of what kind of man he’d be. They’d usually end up disappointed either way. He killed because he had to, not out of any bloodlust or killer instinct. His life as a gunslinger had been no different from his life as a soldier, except for the pay. He wasn’t a hero, for sure, but he wasn’t a villain either. He was just a man. Some days—like today, for instance, when Dean was being an insufferable so-and-so—that was harder than both.

“I suppose, Sam, that you can never escape the past.” He picked up his plate and dumped the leftovers alongside Dean’s, then grabbed a rag and wiped off the remaining crumbs.

“Well, thanks for that advice, Cas,” Sam barked.

Cas held out a hand for Sam’s plate, giving it the same treatment as his own. “That don’t have to be a bad thing, though. Everything I’ve done led me here—led me to invite you and your brother here.”

“Why?” Sam frowned.

“I needed deputies,” Cas answered.

“You couldn’t have put an advertisement in the newspaper?”

Cas sighed, nearly dropping the bicarbonate he was supposed to be putting away. “You’re right, Sam. Dean and I had unfinished business, and I thought this was how I could resolve it. Hasn’t much helped, I suppose.”

It truly hadn’t helped. Things with Dean had become untenable, the tension ratcheted up to levels never before seen on the prairie. Some days, Cas would rather face a whole gang of armed outlaws than Dean. Being so near, yet so far, was torture.

Sam put a hand on his arm; when he had risen from the table, Cas hadn’t noticed. “What happened? You never said.”

“I was court-martialed, Sam, and sent west.”

“Courtmartialed? For what?” Sam asked, frowning.

“Well, Sam, I tried to kill my superior officer. They don’t look kindly on that sort of thing in the army.”

“Why?”

“For Dean.”

* * *

Dean sat at the bar and poured another drink for himself from the bottle Ellen had left. He wasn’t drunk yet, but he’d get there soon. The drink did nothing to stop him thinking about Cas; the old longing had returned in full and it refused to leave. He supposed it had never left at all, but had only lay dormant all those years they were separated. Now Cas was near, though, and Dean still couldn’t have him, so the pain was ever the worse. He’d hoped that he would be happy just in Cas’s presence, but it was killing him worse than any Confederate bullet had ever threatened to and any outlaw ever could. 

He should never have come to Perdition; whatever dreams he’d had of Cas were dashed on the rocks. Cas wanted Meg, not Dean, and nothing that happened would ever change that.

* * *

_**Falmouth, Virginia, May 15, 1863** _

_The men were down and miserable. After another embarrassing defeat, the II Corps had made their way back to camp a week earlier. There had only been two bright spots in the aftermath of the battle: the second division of the corps had succeeded in taking that hard lost piece of high ground known as Marye’s heights, and, more importantly, word had made its way through the Union camp that Jackson, that inimitable general that had so vexed the Union forces at Bull Run, Antietam, and Fredericksburg, had died, taken down by his own side. It was not enough to increase the boys’ morale, however, even though it would likely make all their lives different soon enough._

_Dean had something to celebrate, himself. He’d received a promotion to sergeant, which put some of these very men under his wing. Lieutenant Milton, as well, was now captain of Company A, in charge of all the men in the company, including Dean himself. Dean had never felt in better hands._

_Most of the men of Company A were around the fire, preparing their supper or brewing pots of coffee. They’d settle down to eat and drink soon enough, but their morale would be little improved. In a flash of brilliance, Dean went back to the tent he shared with Ash and returned with his most prized possession: his guitar. The men all but cheered when they saw it, and Dean had to suppress a smug grin. He sat by the fire and strummed a few chords, the sound pulling men from all over the camp._

_“John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave,” he began, out of tune with his guitar but quickly joined in by fifty voices—equally poor—as the line repeated, “John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave.”_

_“John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave,” they all sang again. The tunelessness of the Union forces was as well-known as their epic defeats, but that had never stopped them from singing and fighting with all they had._

_“His soul’s marching on!” a lovely baritone joined in. Dean looked up, surprised to find an excellent voice among the men, and more surprised to find it was Captain Milton. “Captain,” he greeted with a smile. He indicated to Cas to sit next to him, hoping his fine voice would improve Dean’s own by proximity._

_“Glory, halle-hallelujah!” they sang the chorus, Cas’s voice right in Dean’s ear, deep and warm and perfect._

_The men shouted out their favorite tunes, and Dean played what he knew, the men filling in whenever his knowledge failed them._

_“Lorena!” someone shouted._

_“I do not want to hear you sing Lorena,” another complained._

_The company laughed, but the private was right. No one wanted to hear the lovely song about lost love sung by this ragged bunch. “Captain,” Dean said, an idea forming. “Would you give us the pleasure of your fine voice?”_

_“I…” Cas hesitated, but he looked around at the eager faces of his men, men he would lead into battle from now on as their captain. “Yes.”_

_Dean began strumming the opening chords, giving Cas a nod when it was time to sing._

The years creep slowly by, Lorena.  
The snow is on the grass a gain  
The sun's low down the sky, Lorena  
The frost gleams where the flowers have been  
But my heart beats on as warmly now  
As when the summer days were nigh  
The sun can never dip so low  
Or down affections cloudless sky

_He sang with such lovely emotion, that feelings were high for everyone around, thinking of their loves lost, of wives back home waiting for word, of sweethearts long forgotten, of home. Dean turned to the captain, his lovely profile catching the rays of the setting sun, his bright eyes soft, and the kindness and strength evident in every word he sang, giving his men thoughts that would sustain them through rough battles and embarrassing defeats._

_Dean’s heart surged; he felt such love and admiration for his new captain, but there was also sadness. Yet Dean had never had a lost love. He’d had one adolescent experience with a lovely girl from Lawrence, but he had not thought of her in years, nor of the encounter. This longing, though, nearly broke him into tears; such tenderness he felt for the man next to him, that he could not control his emotions._

_A hand touched his, and Dean looked up to see Cas staring at him questioningly. Dean had ceased playing; he looked down at his guitar loose in his idle hands. Cas, however, had kept singing:_

We loved each other then, Lorena  
More than we ever dared to tell  
And what we might have been, Lorena  
Had but our loving prospered well

_Dean’s heart was still beating fast, but he knew then, that it beat for Cas. Love, not yet lost, but neither found, pulsed through his veins. It would have to be forever hidden, never consummated, but always burning deep within him._

* * *

**Perdition, Kansas, October, 1871**

Amelia’s cowhands had slaughtered a pig the previous week, and she was frying up the last of the sausage she’d made for supper. She’d fry up a sliced potato in the grease, and have herself a right good meal. The cowhands ate separately, probably a pot of beans, with some of the bacon from the same pig. 

Her table was freshly scoured, and she’d put a vase of mums in the center. It was a simple meal, and perhaps she didn’t have anyone to share it with, but things were better that way. Giving her heart to a man meant nothing but getting it broken.

The potatoes were just about done, brown and tender, and she poured them onto a plate, one of the few from her wedding china that hadn’t broken on the trip west. She poured herself a glass of cider, and was about to sit down to supper when there was a knock on the door. Whoever was there hadn’t rustled up a dozen cowboys, so she had little fear when she got up to answer it.

She had been very wrong.

“Sam,” she groaned, as she stared up at the tall deputy. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“Here me out,” he pleaded.

“No. Sam, it’s done. Whatever we were going to have, it’s not happening.”

Her supper was growing cold on the table, but she couldn’t let herself shut him out, not completely.

“Let me say my piece, then I’ll go,” he said in a firm voice. “I’m not my past. People change; people grow. I don’t have to be a former bushwacker my whole life, and you don’t have to be a war widow. We can move on together, Amelia.”

“What are you saying?”

“Marry me.”

“No,” she exclaimed, though her heart sped up at his words nonetheless. “I hardly know you, and what I do know is an abomination.”

“Oh,” he said, deflating immediately, like the pig bladder the men had blown up and played ball with the previous week. He looked like a kicked puppy, and it hurt her heart to see him like that. “Because of my past.”

“I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I’m not interested in getting’ married again. Not to any man.”

He tried to argue, but she would allow nothing to change her mind. She saw him out without another word. Her supper was cold, but she had no appetite regardless. She thought of her husband, brave and noble, wasting away to nothing in that prison. What would Donald have thought of her with a rebel traitor?

* * *

Dean spent the whole day at the saloon, nursing the one bottle of gin. He wasn’t drunk, though he wished he was. He watched men come in, drink and flirt, and often leave with one of the girls who worked there. A pretty redhead Dean hadn’t seen there before was serving drinks, but brushing off all the men’s attentions. She didn’t go back to the brothel like Donna and Jo did, leading a man who wanted to spend his poker winnings on someone warm and welcoming. Meg preferred to let her customers come to her, unless Cas was in the saloon and she wanted to flirt and dance with him.

The kernel of a thought started to grow in his mind. If he couldn’t have Cas, he’d have Meg instead. Her affections were for sale.

Ellen hid her surprise, as he rushed into the door but didn’t stop him from going into the brothel. He walked through the familiar hallway, knowing exactly where he was going. He threw open the curtain in Meg’s doorway to find a cowhand undoing his trousers while Meg lay back on the bed, a bored expression on her pretty face.

“Get out,” he demanded.

“Dean?” Meg asked, surprised. She sat up on the bed, her breasts still shamelessly exposed.

“I don’t need a discount.”

Her eyebrows raised in surprise, but she quickly steadied her expression. “Get out,” she echoed. When neither man moved, she threw a piece of her clothing at the cowhand on her bed. “Do up your damned trousers and leave.”

The cowhand looked terrified, but rebuttoned his trousers and slinked out of the room, closing the curtain behind him.

“What are you doin’ here?” she asked.

“I told you—I’m a payin’ customer,” he said. He dug into his pockets and pulled out a pile of bills. It was half his monthly salary, far beyond what Meg usually earned, and he shoved it at her.

“Dean, I don’t want your money,” she said.

He thrust the bills into her hand. “Take ‘em,” he ordered. “I ain’t jokin’.”

The money fell to the floor as Meg pushed his hands away. “Don’t be a fool, Dean,” she said.

“My money ain’t good enough for you?” he asked. “Every man in this county has had ya, but I got to beg?”

She put her hands on her hips, but her face was soft. “I take what I can get, just like you. This, though—this ain’t somethin’ I can take.”

“It ain’t takin’ if I give it,” Dean argued, dropping his hands to his trousers and undoing the buttons. He didn’t want to beg, but he would if he had to.

Meg’s tiny hand reached out to stop the motion. Her touch was surprisingly tender, stroking his hand gently. “I suppose I can give, too,” she said, then moved his hand away and took over unbuttoning his trousers. Dean reached out and cupped her breast curiously. It was soft against his calloused skin, her flesh warm and pliant. She pulled him towards the bed; his trousers gathered around his feet as he shuffled after her, nearly tripping him. He stumbled, but she pushed him to the bed gently and, once he was seated, climbed on top of him, straddling his hips like she was riding a horse. 

She leaned towards him and kissed him right on the mouth. It was a surprise, but he fell into it anyway. Her mouth was warm and wet, and he let his tongue slip inside, tasting her. She unbuttoned his waistcoat, then his shirt, tugging it over his head, until he was in nothing but his drawers and boots, trousers still draped around his ankles. Pulling away to let him remove them, she took off her petticoats and chemise, so they were both bare as a couple of babes. Dean shivered in the cool air of the room.

“Shhh,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss him again. The touch of their bodies against each other was almost comforting. Dean knew she never fully undressed for her customers. This was something unusual for both of them, even if neither wanted to admit what. The money still untouched over the floor was evidence enough of that.

He was still soft, despite the warmth of her body, so she put her hand on him. It felt good, and his cock stirred at the touch, hungry for the hand of someone else. It wasn’t what he truly wanted, but it was nice anyway, especially as she kissed the spot between his neck and shoulder. His cock was thickening at the attention, and he leaned back and closed his eyes, imagining that someone else’s hand was stroking his cock.

A knock on the doorjamb broke him out of his fantasy. His eyes shot open to take in the shadow behind the curtain.

“It’s just a customer. I’ll get rid of him,” Meg assured him gently, putting on a dressing gown and moving the curtain aside just enough to see the man. “I’m with another customer,” she began, but finished with a gasp. “Cas.”

She looked over her shoulder to make eye contact with Dean, who likely looked as stricken with fear as he felt. His cock was quickly softening, becoming useless and flaccid.

And then Cas saw him, his eyes going wide in shock and something else entirely. “Dean,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I—I didn’t realize you were one of Meg’s customers.”

“It’s his first time,” Meg said testily.

“It ain’t his first time,” Cas argued, looking over Dean’s naked body with curiosity. Dean felt warm in the intensity of his gaze, but he wasn’t ashamed.

Meg let out a bitter laugh. “It’s his first time here, Marshal. He ain’t been seein’ me behind your back—‘til now.”

“I wouldn’t presume to—Dean can do as he pleases. I—I’ll be goin’.” Cas turned and made to go down the hallway. Dean didn’t want him to go, and the force of his longing nearly made him faint. This had been a stupid idea, born out of desperation and jealousy.

“Clarence, wait,” Meg shouted after him. 

Cas’s face returned to the doorway, but he wouldn’t look at Dean. “What do you want?” he demanded.

“Why don’t you come in, show your deputy what I like?” Meg asked, mewling. “I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

“Meg!” Dean cried in panic. “What are you doin’? What are you think—?”

“Sure,” Cas answered, stopping Dean’s rant with that one unexpected word.

“Are you mad?” Dean asked.

“Possibly,” Cas answered with a smirk. He stepped into the room, closing the curtain behind him. He removed his old pocket watch from the fob pocket on his waistcoat, then began to unbutton it. Meg settled next to Dean on the bed, leaning against him sensually, so they could watch together.

“If this ain’t what you want,” she whispered, pretending she was nibbling at his ear. “You just got to say so.”

It wasn’t what Dean wanted, not by a long shot, but if this was the best he was going to get, he would take it. He nodded, and Meg treated him to a gentle kiss on the cheek. Cas had his waistcoat off, folding it carefully and placing it on the chair. He then undid the buttons on the yoke of his shirt and pulled it over his head. His scars were visible in the lamplight, pale areas of unnaturally smooth skin, and Dean’s eyes tracked them. Meg followed his eye line, stood up, and approached Cas. “Here?” she asked, looking back towards Dean, and placed a soft kiss on the scar on Cas’s shoulder, the one he’d told Dean about. It was a fresh, messy thing, red tissue stretched over the bone and muscle, where Cas had dug a bullet out himself.

“Yeah,” Dean drawled. “Then the one on his side.” 

Meg kissed a spot near Cas’s waist, where the bayonet had nearly killed him at Morton’s Ford. Cas’s eyes fluttered closed, his breaths becoming shallow.

“I got one to match,” Dean said, which prompted Meg to come over to kiss the scar Gordon Walker had given him months earlier. “Not there,” he said, pulling her up and running a hand through her undone hair. “Here.” He pointed to his head, where a thin white line peeked out from his hairline. “They got me when I tried to pull Cas up out of the freezing water.”

She kissed his head. “There?”

Dean nodded. “Cas has two on his left arm from Fredericksburg. He was a hero that day.”

“Dean,” Cas breathed, as Meg kissed the two scars on his arm. It was supposed to be a warning, but it sounded enough like a moan that Dean could pretend.

Meg continued to pay attention to all of their scars, as Cas removed his trousers, then his drawers. He stood in front of them, his cock thick and heavy between his legs. He was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever seen.

“Why don’t you join Dean on the bed?” Meg asked gently.

Cas refused to look at the bare bodies in front of him; he stared at the ceiling as if it held the secrets to life. “I…don’t know if I can,” he breathed.

Meg shook her head and hopped onto the bed with Dean herself, pushing him down so he was lying on his back. She held out her hand for Cas, and he finally consented, dropping along the head of the bed next to her so she was lying between the two men. She pulled one of Cas’s hands to her right breast, then one of Dean’s to her left, so their arms were crossed above her as they caressed the soft flesh. The light brushes of their skin against each other was more arousing than Meg’s breasts, and Dean’s cock started to thicken again. 

Cas began to kiss Meg’s neck, so Dean followed suit, brushing his lips against her shoulder and nuzzling behind her ear. Cas’s arm shifted and he put his hand on top of Dean’s, moving it down Meg’s body to dip between her legs. Dean sat up to see, but was distracted by Cas leaning down to close his plump lips around Meg’s pert, pink nipple. 

“Damn,” Dean whispered, his cock twitching at the sight.

Their hands were still entwined, rubbing together between Meg’s legs, but Cas released Dean’s to dip into her folds, curving two fingers inside her. She moaned throatily, her head thrown back in pleasure. Cas took his fingers out of her and found Dean’s hand again to guide it inside Meg along with his own fingers. Inside, she was hot and slick, her muscles clenching against the intrusion, but, again, Dean was only focused on Cas’s finger next to his. 

“Don’t stop,” Meg cried out. Cas pumped their hands, their fingers thrusting in and out until she was a whimpering mess, writhing on the bed between them. Cas pulled their fingers out just before she reached her peak, but didn’t let go of Dean’s hand. Instead, he took Dean’s fingers to his own mouth and licked her wetness off them.

“Cas,” he moaned, desperate and needy. Cas took Dean's fingers into his mouth, and Dean could feel it all the way down to his cock. 

Meg watched with heavy-lidded eyes, interest and desire in them as they looked from one man to the other hungrily. “Don’t mind me, boys,” she said huskily.

In one smooth movement, Cas rolled on top of Meg and positioned himself between her legs. From Dean’s vantage point, he could see Cas take his hard cock in hand and push it into her. Cas let out a low moan as he entered her, his face contorted in pleasure. His eyes flew open and made contact with Dean, holding it as he moved. Dean stroked himself in time to Cas’s thrusts, wishing that it was him instead of Meg.

“That’s enough, Marshal, give your deputy a shot,” Meg said, stilling Cas above her.

He hadn’t finished; Dean would’ve been able to tell. Meg pushed him off, so he rolled towards the headboard and leaned against it. His cock was still hard, shiny with her fluids, and Dean longed to touch it. Meg looked over at him, then leaned forward to close her mouth around the slick head. Dean moaned as Cas did, moving to get a better view of Cas’s cock disappearing between her lips. Cas’s hand tangled in her hair to guide her mouth, but she pulled away with a slurping sound. She moved onto her hands and knees with her round buttocks facing Dean.

“Get behind me, Dean,” she ordered, looking over her shoulder.

Dean complied and scrambled to get in position while Meg returned her attentions to Cas. He grabbed her hips, positioned himself, and thrust into where Cas had just been. Meg moaned around Cas’s cock in her mouth, while her muscles tightened where Dean was inside her.

The air was heavy with their sweat; Meg’s pleased sighs and little groans as Dean continued to thrust into her, faded into the background. All he knew was Cas: the way Cas’s eyes fluttered closed in pleasure, the little movements of his hips into Meg’s mouth, and how his breath sped up as she increased her ministrations. Cas was close—Dean could tell—so he chased his own pleasure with abandon, plunging into her wet heat. Suddenly, Meg tightened around him. She trembled and moaned as she came, but that wasn’t what tipped Dean over his own edge. Cas’s breath went ragged, his hips’ movement erratic, but his hand untangled from Meg’s hair and reached out over her back, palm up and waiting.

Dean gripped his waiting hand, their fingers laced together. One last thrust into Meg, and he was coming, his hand tightening around Cas’s. Cas watched, transfixed, then he followed, breathless and beautiful.

Dean had never loved another person more.


	7. Set Ablaze

**Perdition, Kansas, December, 1871**

Cas closed his overcoat against the wind, wrapping it tighter to keep out the chill. He was not looking forward to another cold night in the tent on his property. There was always Meg’s room at the brothel, but he couldn’t make himself visit her since that one evening. When he so much as stepped foot in the brothel, he would picture Dean, his mouth thrown open in pleasure, his spine bowed, his hand clenching around Cas’s as he came.

It was time to think about building his house, and making an order of lumber from back East. Progress on the train tracks had halted at Newton, and wouldn’t pick up again until the next Spring. The stage still made its trips twice a month, but, just as they had thought it safe to stop escorting it, it had been robbed again. Cas was certain it was the same outlaws, though he couldn’t prove it, as this time, they had left no survivors. 

Cas felt like a failure as a Marshal. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Dean growled, when Cas voiced that feeling. “The town is safer than it’s ever been. It ain’t your fault if the stage is robbed any more than it’s the responsibility of the Marshal in Newton.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Cas intoned. 

“’Course I am,” Dean chuckled, turning his horse as the road bent.

“’S getting dark,” Cas noted. The two of them had been at Bobby’s for supper while Sam watched the jail. The younger Winchester hadn’t had much interest in socializing lately. He’d had a bad run of luck, poor kid, but at least Ruby hadn’t been seen in town since October.

“Wait,” Dean said suddenly, stopping his horse. “Stop here.” 

He hopped off his horse and jumped to the ground. Cautiously, Cas followed. “Did you hear something?” he asked.

“No, Cas,” Dean said, a touch of mirth in his voice. “Would you look at that sunset? Best part of livin’ out here.”

Cas looked to the west, where the sun had started to dip over the horizon. He knew sunsets were aesthetically pleasing, but they had come to mean _make camp or die_ rather than something to admire. Standing here with Dean, however, he had never seen anything so beautiful.

“The sun can never set so low…” Cas sang, humming the rest of the stanza.

“Don’t, Cas,” Dean barked--whatever spell had been cast by the setting sun was ended.

“Why do you hate that song?”

“I don’t hate it,” Dean sighed. “I just got specific memories to go with it, and I don’t want them intruding when I’m tryin’ to live my life.”

“I like my memories,” Cas mused. “Sometimes I think they’re the only thing that kept me goin’ for years.”

“Well, they aren’t all bad,” Dean laughed. “That’s the problem.” 

The sky was gradually darkening, illuminating the stars above them, but the two men stayed until the sun had disappeared over the horizon.

* * *

_**Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, July 3, 1863** _

_Company A had been skirmishing through the night. It had been like fighting in slow motion through the orchard, taking what shots they could, hoping the rebels didn’t find them. The men only had what they brought with them, and stomachs were rumbling when they were relieved and made their way back to the line on Cemetery Ridge._

_Whatever rest Cas and his men had hoped to get through the noise of artillery and rifle fire, they’d lost the chance when their commanding officer called them in. Cas rounded up his sergeants and headed over to get his orders._

_“We’re taking that damned farm,” Major Ellis said._

_Cas’s eyes traveled to the west, where a huge barn dominated the landscape, then to the beaten soldiers of the 12th New Jersey north in the line. That barn, the little white house nearby, and the orchard and outbuildings had been causing trouble the previous day and through the night. Skirmishers, like the 12th NJ, had been taking and losing the fortification all morning, but it seemed to have fallen to Confederate hands permanently. Sharpshooters were taking down targets in the line on the ridge, and their Division commander was going to send the 14th Connecticut to do what multiple regiments had failed in doing: take the farm and keep it._

_“A, C, E, and G, you’re with me as support. Captain Moore will lead the rest of the companies to take the barn.”_

_As newly minted captain of Company A, Cas relayed the information to his sergeants._

_“You’re jokin’,” Dean said, before Cas had even finished giving the orders. “We spent the night out there; you know we won’t make it.”_

_Cas pulled him aside. “You can’t talk like that, Dean.”_

_“That barn’s like a fortress, Cas,” Dean countered._

_“These are our orders, and we’re going to see them out to the best of our ability,” Cas said, leaning close—possibly too close—to his sergeant._

_“Yes, sir,” Dean replied, kowtowed, but full of resentment, nonetheless._

_“You’re a sergeant, now, Dean,” Cas sighed. “The men will look to you for guidance and surety in this expedition.”_

_“Yes, sir.” Dean straightened, coming to attention in a swift movement. “I didn’t realize I had been talkin’ to Captain Milton, I thought you were my friend, Cas.”_

_“I thought I was both,” Cas replied and returned to his other awaiting sergeants to get the company together._

_They headed north along the line, so it’d be a straight shot towards the farm, with less risk of enemy fire. A knoll would hide their position as far as Emmitsburg Road, where Company A would wait with their Commander and three other companies, while four companies took the barn. Brigadier General Hays shouted to them as they scurried past, “scatter and run,” and it had become evident that this was no ordinary task the 14th had been given._

_“I can’t see a goddamned thing,” Dean complained from his spot behind Cas. The knoll that hid their position from the enemy also hid the farm from their immediate view. The sounds, however, were brutal: shells exploding, rifles firing, the cries of men, and the percussive sounds of bullets hitting wood and flesh. If the rest of the 14th would succeed in their task, it would not be without difficulty._

_“We’ve got to take the house,” the Major finally ordered, mobilizing the men to move on._

_Cas led his company over the knoll, but what he saw made his stomach drop. “We’ve been flanked,” he muttered as they started to run. A long line of rebel troops to their right fired towards them. Cas saw a Lieutenant get shot to his left; he stumbled over rocks in the field as it drew his attention. Men were being taken down all around him, but they continued on, for they were battle-tested and tough._

_Cas was the first to reach the house. The element of surprise was their only savior, so, instead of breaking down the door, he leaped up and kicked out a window, bounding through and landing in the kitchen. He heard a thump as another soldier landed behind him, but his focus was on the surprised rebel readying his rifle. Cas struck out with his bayonet, driving it through the man’s body before he could fire a shot._

_“Jesus, Cas,” he heard Dean say. He turned around to see Dean behind him, but Dean cried out and raised his rifle to fire on the rebels advancing towards them. Dean charged past Cas towards the enemy soldiers, his bayonet at the ready. Cas followed suit, and the terrified rebels—just boys really—veered towards the front door, where they were met with the rest of Cas’s men forcing their way through it._

_They poured into the house, though windows like Cas and through the now open door. A furious fight ensued, driving the rebels out of the building and into the orchard beyond. All the while, the building was bombarded with shells and the rifle fire of both the rebel line flanking them and the newly established skirmish line in the orchard._

_“The house is ours,” a private declared. “We’ve checked—“_

_A minié ball cut off the last words as it went straight through his neck, spraying Cas with his blood. He collapsed to the ground with a thud._

_They may have had the house, but they could not keep it. Major Ellis ordered the men to make for cover. Some men headed for the woodpile, some to the smokehouse, some to the chicken coop, and some to the outhouse. Cas headed for the fortified barn, Dean hot on his trail, along with many of the other men of their company. They were under constant fire, and Cas thought the men who chose closer targets were wiser men than they were. Wiser, still, than the rebels on the hill, who were wasting artillery on what had been the day before just a skirmish line._

_“Help hold the barn,” Cas ordered, scattering his men to the windows as they climbed the earthen driveway._

_A private from Company F moved out of the way so that Cas could place himself at a window facing the orchard. At any sight of movement between the trees, he fired, feeling gratified whenever he’d see a man fall at his rifle’s shot. They would hold the barn at all costs, and high costs they would be. The rebels had not given up the farm easily; constant rifle fire came from two sides, and shells burst from the artillery on Seminary Ridge. Cas looked through the smoke to where his men were stationed, but his eyes only found Dean. He was among several who had taken the next window on the same wall Cas had, firing towards the orchard as well._

_Suddenly, a great force shook the barn, as a shell exploded on the top level. Men were knocked to the ground, and it was with all his strength that Cas stayed at his position. Shrapnel rained and chunks of wood and stone from the building were scattered around. Cas looked again to his men, and Dean was no longer at his position. Something snapped within him, like a leather belt under stress, and he abandoned his position to rush to where he had last seen his loyal sergeant._

_Cas made his way through the debris, heart pounding through his chest. “Dean!” he cried as he peered through the smoke and dust._

_Nearing the window, he could see a pile of broken and bloodied bodies where Dean had been. Cas’s heart was in his throat, dread making his movements shaky. Then, he saw movement in one of the bodies. Groaning, a man from Company C arose, alive, if bloodied and bruised. Cas helped him to his feet; spurred into action, he saw to the second man, who was also alive, and one of Cas’s own men. He helped him to his feet, and revealed Dean, who’s freckled face was pale with dust. He was as still as…Cas refused to think about it. He was as still as a sleeping princess from a fairy tale, whom only true love’s kiss would revive._

_Dean did not require a kiss, however, as his eyes fluttered open. “Jesus, Cas, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, mirthful even in the face of death. He let Cas help him to his feet, then clasped him on the shoulder._

_Cas let out a breath he had not realized he’d been holding. They’d faced Death every day. Why was this one man’s safety more important to Cas than the rest of the men in his charge?_

_He had not time to ponder the question, as the approaching sound of hoofbeats became audible through the fighting. Captain Moore, who had led the original charge, stepped to the door, but all the men in the barn heard the voice: “Colonel Smyth orders you to burn the barn and house and retire.”_

_The sounds of relief from the men in the barn overwhelmed even the firefight around them. The orders were acknowledged by their commander, and Captain Moore retrieved the matches and paper from the brave man, who had made the dangerous journey that would save the regiment. He began his return journey to the line, where he would be welcomed back a hero._

_“Company A” Major Ellis called. “You’re with me.”_

_“Company A out!” Cas shouted, rounding up his men and following his commander’s orders back into the fray._

_They had made it a hundred feet when a shell exploded ahead of Cas, who was leading the charge. He and the men immediately behind were tossed to the ground. Cas felt a sharp pain to his stomach, and he knew he’d been hit. Doubled over in pain, he knew it was over for him, so he signaled for his men to go ahead, to get the matches to the house and get this fruitless mission over with._

_What was strange, however, was that Cas could not feel the life drain out of him. He pulled up his hand from where he’d been clutching his wound; even through the smoke, he could see it was not bloodied and his fingers were not wet. Suddenly, an arm was around his chest, helping him up._

_“You’ll be fine, Cas,” he heard Dean’s voice say. “We’ll get you to the surgeon, and he’ll heal you right up.”_

_“I—I don’t believe I’m injured,” Cas said, bewildered. He felt his stomach, the fabric of his uniform was full of holes, but he was unharmed. He pulled his pocket watch from the fob pocket on his waistcoat._

_“Well, I’ll be damned!” Dean hollered. “Come on, let’s go light her up and get out of here.”_

_A lieutenant had taken up Cas’s position at the front, but he and Dean scurried ahead to lead the men on this important mission._

_Major Ellis saw that the paper was put to the house, and Cas lit it. The thin weatherboard siding that had been no protection from rebel fire caught immediately. Protected by the flames and smoke from the smoldering house, they made it back to the barn with little trouble from the enemy._

_“Gather the wounded and dead,” Ellis shouted._

_“Can we also take the chickens?” a voice cried out._

_Ellis let out a good-natured laugh. “I suppose—just this once.”_

_A cry of joy rang out among the men, as they put fire to the hay and set the barn alight._

_The smoke again provided cover as they ran back to the line, some of the men clutching squawking chickens, and all relieved that their lives were spared. Cas looked back over his shoulder as he neared the top of the knoll. The roofs were already starting to collapse, the farm destroyed, and he couldn’t help but think, as he turned back to Dean running alongside him, that he had come back a different man than he had set out as._

* * *

**Perdition, Kansas, December 25, 1871**

Dean took the glass of champagne Ellen handed him. She’d ordered it special for the Christmas party, and Dean liked it better than he’d expected to. The town had grown so much in the past six months that they could no longer do anything like Sunday suppers, but Bobby had invited a big group of people to his new wooden homestead.

Ellen was acting as hostess, so her girls got to come to the party. Meg was dressed respectably for once, with a dark coat wrapped around her to keep out the chill. She paid her usual attention to Cas, but it had lessened in the months since she’d welcomed both Dean and Cas into her bed. None of them had spoken about it—unless Cas and Meg had in private—but the experience haunted Dean’s thoughts nearly every day. It was becoming ever more difficult to hide his feelings for Cas. In fact, he was certain that had he not already known him, he would have fallen in love with him all over again.

Dean patted Cas’s present where it practically burned a hole in his pocket. Dean may have been a sentimental fool for it, but he wasn’t going to let himself turn chicken when it came to giving it to him. If Sammy was brave enough to face Mrs. Richardson in public like this, then Dean could give the best friend he ever had this present.

“Sammy,” Dean greeted his brother sloppily. The bubbly champagne had gone to his head in a way whiskey or beer never did. “I’m real glad you came.”

“I can’t avoid her forever, Dean,” Sam said testily. “If we’re both goin’ to live in this town, I’m goin’ to see her.”

“Nah,” Dean said, swaying on the spot. “I meant here—Perdition. I’m glad you came out with me.”

Sam didn’t answer, his eyes tracking the widow’s movements on the other side of the room. Dean scanned the room, seeing Cas chatting with Bobby and Miss Ellen, a glass of champagne in his hand, too. He looked up and caught Dean’s eye, a bright smile spreading over his face. Dean’s heart thudded in his chest. He had never felt about any girl what he felt for Cas. Until he met Cas, he hadn’t realized a man could feel this way about another man, but, once he did, it felt like the missing piece of his life was in place. There wasn’t a person alive—or dead—who could make him feel like his love for Cas was unnatural.

Not even Cas.

They all sat down to dinner. Benny and Ellen did all the cooking. The previous day, Cas, Dean, and Sam had gone turkey hunting, and come back with a nice, fat bird that Benny had roasted up with a sausage stuffing. Ellen had made yeast bread, which, after months of soda biscuits and cornbread, tasted like heaven. There were platters piled high with sweet potatoes, a boiled ham, lima beans, and—Dean’s favorite—three apple pies. Dean hadn’t eaten a meal like it since he’d left his ma’s house in Lawrence. There wasn’t enough room for everyone to sit, so the table was laden with the food and everyone ate where they could. People were sitting on the floor, standing up around the punch bowl, and leaning against the wooden walls. 

“Is that a third piece of pie?” Sam asked.

“What’s it to you?” Dean mumbled through a mouthful.

“Amelia made ‘em,” Sam answered with a pout.

Dean swallowed thickly. “They’re good pie. You should go over and give my compliments.”

“Shut up,” Sam barked, getting up from the floor where they were sitting and joining Bobby and Ellen near the kitchen.

“He’s O.K?” Cas asked. “I can’t have a distracted deputy, especially not when there’s a mysterious gang of outlaws on the loose.”

Dean couldn’t help the strangled laugh at his own expense. He had never thought it a fault of his, however, to worry more about Cas’s fate in battle than his own. “They’ll work it out.”

“I’m sure,” Cas scoffed.

A sudden burst of laughter came from the other side of the room. Ellen and Bobby had ended up under the kissing ball, and he’d had to kiss her, red-faced and shy.

Dean eyed the ball of mistletoe, and a thought occurred to him. “Maybe we can help those two work things out,” he said.

Cas cocked an eyebrow in interest. “What do you have in mind?”

The plan was simple. Cas would go over to the kissing ball and keep Sam in its vicinity, while Dean, under the guise of complementing Amelia’s pies, would lure her towards it. 

Everything was going exactly how they planned it, Cas engaging Sam and Bobby in a discussion of how to protect the stage, while Dean sidled up to Amelia.

“Mrs. Richardson, I hope it’s not too forward if I tell you that even my ma doesn’t make a pie like yours.”

“Thank you, Deputy Winchester,” she answered, but her eyes were on the other side of the room where Sam was in position.

“Would you like to have a piece with me?” Dean asked, though his stomach was too full for a fourth slice of pie. Somehow, Amelia agreed, and she joined Dean in the kitchen. Just one step to the left and she was in position.

And then everything went awry. Someone passed by on the way to the table and Dean was shoved to the side, directly under the kissing ball. Directly under the kissing ball with Cas. He tried to move before anyone noticed and cracked a few jokes, but he was too late.

“Awww, deputy, it looks like the Marshal’s goin’ to have to kiss you,” Bobby laughed.

For one brief, unbelievable moment, Dean thought Cas _was_ going to kiss him. His mind rushed through the possibilities, would it be soft and gentle, rough and passionate, or deep and full of all the things that had never been said?

Cas’s stare was piercing, but he didn’t move, not even as a joke for the benefit of their friends.

“Well, Marshal, I’m just not that kind of girl,” Dean quipped, if only to diffuse the awkward silence.

“No, you are no girl,” Cas remarked darkly, his stare still piercing and unnerving.

The moment the laughter died down and the conversation moved on, Dean ran away like a coward. With the party still going on inside, no one noticed him slip outside. It was dark, illuminated by nothing but the full moon up above and the lantern light spilling from the glass windows of Bobby’s house, but his eyes were quickly adjusting. Dean walked into a hitching post he couldn’t see, frightening a horse who let out a panicked whinny. He let out a swear and cupped his sore balls through his trousers.

“Careful, Winchester, don’t want to damage the goods.”

Dean’s head whipped up to find Meg sitting on Bobby’s unhitched wagon, like she’d been waiting for someone.

“What’re you doing out here?” Dean demanded. Meg rolled her eyes, but moved aside so Dean could sit next to her on the wooden bench.

“You all probably didn’t even notice I’d left,” she huffed.

“Sure we did,” Dean lied. “Cas asked about you.”

“You don’t got to lie, Dean,” she said gently. “I know where I stand.”

“At least you haven’t made a fool of yourself, like…” He trailed off with a sigh. The night was cold, but Dean’s cheeks reddened from embarrassment rather than the chill. He was pretty sure Meg knew what was what, since she’d invited Cas to join them in bed. 

“You _are_ a fool, Winchester,” she hissed.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Dean chuckled darkly. “I don’t know why Cas puts up with either of us.”

“No?” she smirked.

“Well, fine,” Dean conceded grumpily. “I know why he keeps you around.”

“He don’t have much interest in that anymore,” Meg pouted.

Dean’s heart skipped a beat at her words. “Cas hasn’t visited you?”

“I suppose it’s for the best,” she sighed, nodding.

“Why?” Dean asked. 

Meg tightened her coat around her. The silence in the wake of his question was overwhelming, even with the sounds of the party so near. 

“’Cause I’m havin’ a baby,” she finally said, sounding small and young.

“You’re not,” he sputtered, his mind hardly catching up with his mouth.

“Sure, I am,” she countered. “It’s his.”

“You can’t know that,” Dean scoffed, though his heart was beating a drum cadence in his chest. “How many clients do you have?”

“Might be yours, then,” Meg suggested, shrugging arrogantly.

“Is it?” Dean challenged. 

“Nah,” she sighed; her arrogance faded instantly. “I already knew by then.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded and wrapped her arms around her stomach protectively. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Dean swore. “He’s goin’ to marry you.” Every word was indescribable pain.

“If I wanted to get married, I’d’ve stayed in Kentucky. I like my job; I like freedom. My pa wanted me to get married to a man older than he was, so I ran away. I wasn’t meant to sit at home and cook yeast bread and stew, a baby on my hip and another one on the way.”

“O.K., but this is Cas.”

“I ain’t you,” she drawled.

* * *

_**Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, July 3, 1863** _

_The rebels were coming, marching towards them with rifles raised. There was nothing to do but hold them off. They were crossing the Emmitsburg Road, where Company A of the 14th had just hours before waited to take the farmhouse, when Cas gave the order to fire. The first line let loose a volley of rifle shot; they could see a few men fall in the enemy lines, which gave them courage in the face of such a charge. The front line ran to the back to reload, and another line of soldiers did the same. Four deep along the low stone wall, they let off a constant stream of rifle fire to beat back the rebels._

_“Fire,” Cas would call out, shooting off his own rifle whenever he had a chance to reload. It was a pity he was distracted with orders, as Cas was undoubtedly the best shot in the regiment. Most soldiers couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, but not Cas. He made his choices deliberately, picking the perfect target and taking him down, even as rebel fire pierced the air around him._

_Dean found himself so distracted watching Cas shoot, that he nearly missed his own turn at rebel fire practice. He let out a clumsy shot that did little to stem the charging men, but returned behind the line to reload and try again. Smoke filled the air, choking them and making visibility poor, but still they fired on. Someone had started chanting, “Frederickburg! Fredericksburg!” with every volley. Dean hadn’t fought at the battle, but he remembered Cas’s description of it, of the perilous attempt to take the high ground that had cost the Union many casualties._

_He thought of Cas, wounded and afraid, spending the long night among the dead and dying, and raised his voice to shout with all he had, “Fredericksburg! Fredericksburg! Fredericksburg!”_

_The rebels neared the low stone wall that was ahead of the Union line, and the fight was on. There was a commotion south of their position, and Dean ignored his own battle to see what had happened, to see Union and Confederate mingling behind the wall—the rebels had broken through the line! There was nothing to do, no way to help the men suddenly overrun, except to redouble their own efforts. The commander rode behind them, shouting encouragements, and the men fired on. No rebel would get through their line, not if they could help it. Next to Dean, Garth let out a cry of pain; he’d been shot in the shoulder. They scrambled to get him behind the line, and reformed to continue their volley. They were succeeding; the rebel lines were scrambled and depleted._

_Fifty yards away, one of the rebel units’ flags was planted—near abandoned by its fallen owners. “I need a volunteer to capture that flag,” Major Ellis called out._

_Dean leapt up, hoping to take such an honor on himself, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. Cas peered down at him, a frown on his handsome face, shaking his head. In the delay, three other soldiers bounded over the wall. Dean watched as one of them was taken down by rebel fire immediately, but the other two sprinted ahead, one of them capturing the flag and dashing back to receive his honors._

_The men around him cheered and fought on, made all the bolder by their comrade’s bravery. Dean didn’t mind him his glory; it wasn’t jealousy that churned in his stomach, but something else entirely._

_Hope._

* * *

**Perdition, Kansas, December 25, 1871**

Sam watched Dean slink away into the dark night. He made to go after him, but a hand on his arm stopped him. He looked down at the touch, expecting a large, masculine hand from Cas or possibly Bobby, bent on keeping him from following Dean, but instead, it was small and delicate.

“Sam?” Amelia said, keeping her hand in place. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Richardson,” Sam replied, as sadness and longing seemed to course through the place Amelia’s hand was touching him.

She sighed, leading Sam away from the crowded kitchen. “I’m sorry for what I said. I been thinkin’ about it ever since. I suppose I’ve never been able to forgive my husband for dyin’, the South for capturing him, or the Union for failing him. We’d only been married a year when he was drafted, and I miss him so much.”

This wasn’t making Sam feel any better. “Amelia, I never wanted to replace your husband.”

“I know. Every man in Kansas has offered to court me, and I suppose I didn’t see the difference.”

“The difference? Between what?”

“I like you,” she shrugged. “I never thought I’d meet another man I could love, and I panicked.”

“And my past?”

“An excuse, Sam. Perhaps you should escort me home, and we’ll talk about it.”

Sam hardly took the time to say his goodbyes before heading outside to get Amelia’s wagon ready. He waved at Dean, who was sitting in the dark with one of Ellen’s girls; Sam didn’t want to disturb them. Dean was allowed his own turn, even if the apparent object of his affections wasn’t someone he’d bring home to their ma. 

Soon, the horses were hitched, and Amelia was seated beside Sam, her arm tucked into his.

“Do you think you’d like being a rancher?” Amelia asked, as they rode through the dark landscape. 

Sam’s heart soared at her question. “Yes, I think I would. I always knew bein’ a deputy wasn’t my life’s work. I’d been set on bein’ a clerk in Lawrence, but that never felt right either.”

“What does feel right?”

“This, now. You.” He gripped her arm tighter; she settled into the hold.

“I feel the same way,” she said, smiling. “And I think that I’d like to be your wife, if you’re still willin’ to be my husband.”

“Are you askin’ me to marry you?” Sam asked. He was so happy that he hardly noticed that he was the one supposed to ask her to marry him.

“I am,” she replied.

Sam let out a joyous whoop and urged Amelia’s horses forward, towards the ranch, as fast as they could go. He’d kiss his wife-to-be on her front step, just like what was proper.

After what felt like years, they passed the turnoff that was Amelia’s driveway. As soon as they came within sight of the house, Sam knew something was wrong. He reached below the wagon seat to grab his rifle.

“What’s wrong?”

Sam put a finger to his lips to silence her, but, as she looked around, she realized the problem. This time of night, the cowhands’ barracks would be brightly lit, a roaring fire in the firepit outside, where the men would be drinking and singing in celebration of the holiday. They were rough and tumble men who wouldn’t mind the cold, but there was nothing but darkness and silence. Sam stopped the horses where they were, leaving Amelia in the wagon and taking the lantern and his rifle.

He was near twenty feet from the barn when he saw the first body, face down on the prairie grass. He turned the man over and recognized the face of one of Amelia’s cowboys, dead—shot through the chest. Sam wondered if he’d been running to the barn or away from his attackers, but they’d never know the answer.

Footsteps behind him echoed through the silent night. He whipped his head around, brandishing the rifle.

“Sam!” Amelia admonished him, eyeing the weapon in his hand.

“Amelia, don’t look.” He attempted to block the body with his, but Amelia could easily see past the ruse.

“I’ve seen death before, Sam,” she scolded. “I ain’t afraid.”

Sam stepped aside, and let her take in the sight. “How many men did you have working tonight?”

She thought for a moment, her eyes glued to the dead man. “Six. Ten men took the main part of the herd south for the winter.”

Sam made his way around the darkened farm, while Amelia checked the house. He found another body of one of Amelia’s men behind the barracks, shot through the back. The stable was empty, so either the marauders stole the horses, which was very likely, or some of the men escaped into the night.

“Sam!” Amelia’s voice rang through the darkness. He rushed to the little house to help, his rifle ready to fire. Throwing open the door, he found Amelia standing over another body. “He’s not one of mine.”

The man had, perhaps, been in the process of raiding Amelia’s kitchen. He hadn’t been the only one, as the pantry shelves were empty, so someone must have escaped with her winter stores. He rolled the body over, and the man groaned painfully. 

“He’s still alive,” Amelia breathed, surprise evident in her voice. The man had been shot in the shoulder, and Amelia rushed to staunch the flow of blood which was flowing onto her neatly scrubbed floor. Sam, however, stood stock still, paralyzed by the man on the floor in front of him.

He knew that face.

“Ansem,” he muttered. He was years older than when Sam had last seen him in Kansas all those years before, going from a boy to a fully-grown man. He’d been one of Lucifer’s most loyal men; he’d risen to the rank of Lieutenant in Lucifer’s Army before Sam had abandoned them after the Lawrence Massacre.

Ansem tried to rise, despite his injury, but Sam stopped him with a hand to his chest.

“Sam, he’s going to die if I don’t help him,” Amelia pleaded, her kind nature overcoming whatever anger she felt at his apparent crimes.

“Let him die.”

“Whatever he’s done, he’s still a man.”

“Sam Winchester?” Ansem groaned, his eyes narrowing in recognition. 

“What’s going on?” Amelia asked, voice stricken with fear. She looked up to Sam for answers, but he had none to offer. Whatever Ansem was doing in Perdition, it was nothing good.

“He still remembers what you did to him, Sam Winchester,” Ansem declared with a cough. “Lucifer never forgets—never forgives. The end of days is here, and Lucifer will rise."

* * *

_**Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, July 3, 1863** _

_The fight was over, all things considered. There were still skirmishes, rifle fire and artillery still filled the air with smoke and thunderous noise, but, as darkness fell on the third of July, the boys in blue had successfully beaten back the rebel charge. It was a hard won victory, but it was a victory, and none celebrated it more dearly than the men of the 14th Connecticut._

_Safely behind the line, the men of Company A had been given their first opportunity in more than thirty-six hours to rest and eat. The chickens had been divided among the men, roasted, and gnawed down to the bone. Dean had only taken a small piece, preferring to let the treat be for the privates, though one bite had been like heaven. Cupping the rest of his portion in his hand, he set off to find the one person he wanted to share it with._

__

_After wandering through the debris caused by the earlier shelling, Dean finally found Cas by himself in a secluded grove of trees._

__

_“Cas?” Dean asked tentatively._

__

_“Hello, Dean,” Cas answered. He didn’t look up, and, as Dean approached, he realized Cas had his pocket watch in his hand and was examining it like it held the answers to all life’s questions. Cas held the watch up for Dean to see. “It’s dented.”_

____

_“Better it than you,” Dean said, leaning against a tree that was as battle-scared as they were._

_____ _

_“I suppose,” Cas answered thoughtfully. “It would have been just punishment, however.”_

______ _ _

_“What? You dyin’?” Dean eyed the pocket watch, looking for its mysterious answers, too, but it provided none._

_______ _ _ _

_“Why are you here?” Cas asked instead of answering._

________ _ _ _ _

_“We’re to hold the line, Captain, unless deployed for skirmishing,” Dean joked, adding an over the top salute. Cas fixed him with a level gaze, and Dean withered. “I brought you chicken.”_

_________ _ _ _ _ _

_He held out his hand to show the tiny piece to Cas, whose large eyes rounded in interest. “That’s for the men,” he said through obvious longing._

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

_“Yeah, well, they insisted I take a piece, and I’m sharing it with you.”_

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Tentatively, Cas took the chicken from his hand, brought it to his mouth, and closed his plush, pink lips around it. Dean could have died right then and been happy, just to see the look on Cas’s face of pure pleasure._

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_“Thank you,” Cas said once he’d finished chewing. “You should get some sleep.”_

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_“I ain’t tired.”_

______________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_“Then leave me be because I am.”_

_______________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Dean stepped back, affronted. “What’s got your drawers twisted?”_

________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_“You nearly died, today.”_

_________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_“It’s war, Cas,” Dean reminded him. “It ain’t good for the health any way 'round.”_

__________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_“You don’t understand,” Cas hissed. “My men and my orders are my only responsibilities out there. When that shell struck the barn, I wasn’t thinkin’ ‘bout either.”_

___________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_He might have well been telling Dean about his pet lion who was going to help them win the war, for how unbelievable Cas’s words sounded to Dean._

____________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_“Cas? What’re you sayin’?”_

_____________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_“What is it about you?” Cas frowned. “Why are you more important than the other men under my command?”_

______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Something must have seized hold of Dean, perhaps it was leftover energy from a battle well-fought and won, but he surged forward and captured Cas’s mouth in a kiss. Cas was stiff in the face of Dean’s assault, but then he must have been possessed by the same thing, for he pulled Dean towards him, opening his mouth and deepening the kiss._

_______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Of all the things Dean had experienced, good and bad, he knew then that this was the high point of his life. Kissing Cas was like the first apple pie of the season, that perfect spring day when the sun is out, a bucket of water to cool down on a hot summer’s day on the farm, but also like a shell exploding—powerful, but dangerous._

_______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Dean had grown hard in his trousers, and he pushed his leg between Cas’s to see if he was, too. When Dean made contact, Cas let out a low, desperate moan, so Dean rubbed his leg against where Cas was indeed hard. The cover of the trees and the growing darkness hid them from the world, but, if they were caught, they would surely be discharged in dishonor. Dean, however, did not care, not while Cas’s hot breath was in his ear and his hands were on Dean’s back, pulling him tight so that they were pressed together from top to toe._

________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Dean reached between them and pulled Cas out of his trousers, putting his hand on another man’s cock for the first—only?—time. It throbbed against his palm, damp and sticky, and Dean treated it like he would his own, stroking along its length._

_________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_“Dean,” Cas breathed, ending on a moan. His hand moved from Dean’s back to rub against Dean’s cock as well, then popped the buttons on his trousers and released him. If the experience had been heaven before, it was nothing compared to the feeling of Cas’s hand on his cock. They stroked each other desperately, and then spilled together onto each other’s hand._

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_It was a new world, one which was as deadly as the war they were fighting, but which Dean knew he could never give up._

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

* * *

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Perdition, Kansas, December 25, 1871**

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Dean hadn’t moved from the wagon, even though Meg had left. She hadn’t rejoined the party, so Dean could remain confident that Cas was still in the dark about his upcoming fatherhood. The door swung open, light from the party spilling out and silhouetting someone in the doorway.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I thought you’d left,” Cas’s deep voice said over the diminishing sounds of the party. 

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I needed some fresh air.”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“It’s cold out here,” Cas remarked. He pulled off his overcoat and held it up to Dean, but Dean refused to take it. “I was worried.”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“You don’t have to worry, Cas,” Dean said, trying to keep his cool as his emotions threatened to boil over.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I’m goin’ to anyway,” Cas countered. He climbed up onto the wagon into the seat that Meg had vacated. He wrapped the overcoat around Dean’s shoulders. It was still warm from Cas’s body heat, but the gesture warmed him more than the cloth ever could. “Pocket.”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“What?”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Check the pockets, Dean,” Cas said gently, a small smile blooming on his handsome face. 

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Dean did as he was told and pulled out a little box. It was wrapped in brown paper from Marv’s store, and Dean tore it open eagerly.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Guitar strings,” he breathed. He turned the box over in his hand.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I know it ain’t much, but—” Cas began.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“No, it’s great. You can’t get these out here,” Dean interrupted. “Marv won’t order them for me, and my E string is about to snap.”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I like it when you play,” Cas said.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Even in the cold air, Dean’s cheeks were hot. Cas’s present was still burning a hole in his own pocket, so he pulled it out. He’d wrapped it in the previous month’s edition of the new Perdition Gazette, so it didn’t get damaged after its trip out west on the stage. He handed it to Cas. 

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Thank you, Dean,” he said softly as he ripped off the paper wrapping. The silver chain fell into his hand, sparkling in the moonlight.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“It’s a watch fob—for your pocket watch,” Dean explained.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I see that.” Cas examined its pretty silver fob; one side was inlaid with a cut piece of glass in a deep blue that matched Cas’s eyes. He turned it over to see the other side and let out a surprised gasp.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“It’s engraved—July, 3, 1863” Dean said, running his finger over the characters. “The day it saved your life.”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Uh huh,” Cas scoffed in disbelief, his eyes still wide.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“There were other things, as well,” Dean chuckled. “Things I remember more fondly than getting shelled by the Confederacy.”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Dean,” Cas warned.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Did you think that if we never talked about it, you could pretend it never happened?”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Well, yeah, ‘cause it ain’t _like that_ ,” Cas countered.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“You mean it ain’t like that _anymore_ ,” Dean replied. “It used to be like that.”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“That was war. It…it doesn’t count. You don’t think every other man was doin’ exactly what we was doin’?”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“’Cept I loved you,” Dean said, his heart thumping in his chest. “I loved you then, and I love you now. It ain’t never goin’ away.”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Cas’s eyes went soft, his lips open in surprise. “I love you, too,” he breathed. For one brief moment, the world stopped. If Dean could have lived an entire life in that tiny second before Cas spoke again, he could have had a perfect life. Then the world started up again, and Cas continued. “But it ain’t romantic. It ain’t like what we used to do.”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Dean tried not to show how his heart was breaking for a second time that night. “It could be like that,” he pleaded, emotion turning his voice rough and hoarse.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“No, it can’t,” Cas said, stubborn like a child told he has to go to bed. He stood, nearly unbalancing the wagon, and started to climb down.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Is it like that with Meg?” Dean asked, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. Cas stopped halfway down.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“What does Meg have to do with this?” he asked, like he hadn’t held Dean’s hand while they fucked her together.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Dean let out a rough laugh. “I got a mouth, too, you know,” he said. “I can give you anything she does. Unless you love her, too? Do you want to marry her, Cas?”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Dean,” Cas said plaintively, climbing down to the ground and moving to walk back into the party. “Don’t.”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Cas had gotten halfway to the door when it became too much for Dean to take. “She’s havin’ your baby, Cas,” he called out.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Cas stopped in his tracks and whipped around. “What?!”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

All the fire went out of Dean at the sight of Cas’s stricken face. “Meg’s with child. Your child.”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Cas hung his head in his hand, looking younger than Dean had ever known him. It hurt Dean beyond words to see him like this, and he wished he could have made everything better. It was beyond his abilities. 

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I can’t—“ Cas began, but he was unable to finish his sentence, whether out of emotion or because the distant sound of approaching hoofbeats distracted him.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The two men watched as Sam approached, riding like the wind. He halted his horse as he approached the house.

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“We’ve got a problem.”

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very fortunate that the actions of the 14th Connecticut at the Bliss Farm during the Battle of Gettysburg are well documented. Thanks to all those who have made this information available on the internet.
> 
> Sites consulted:
> 
> [Battlefield Backstories, part 1](http://battlefieldbackstories.blogspot.com/2012/10/combat-leadership-major-ellis-captain.html?m=0)   
>  [Battlefield Backstories, part 2](http://battlefieldbackstories.blogspot.com/2012/10/combat-leadership-major-ellsi-captain.html?m=0)
> 
> [ The Order of Civil War Obsessively Compulsed](http://www.brettschulte.net/CWBlog/2011/01/31/the-battle-for-the-bliss-farm-at-gettysburg-july-3-1863/)
> 
> [Faces of the Civil War](http://facesofthecivilwar.blogspot.com/2013/07/defending-bliss-barn.html)
> 
> [History Net](http://www.historynet.com/battle-of-gettysburg-fury-at-bliss-farm.htm)


	8. 'Til Death

**Perdition, Kansas, March, 1872**

Ansem Weems died in jail. No one came to break him out, and his injuries weren’t treatable by anyone in Perdition. There was no honor among thieves; his fellow outlaws wouldn’t have risked capture themselves to let him die a free man. Cas wouldn’t let Sam keep watch, even though it had been his regular responsibility from the beginning. He wanted to do things as by the book as possible, especially given Sam’s history with the outlaw, and he made every effort to keep Weems’ comfortable until the end. Even an outlaw deserved that, and Cas had been around enough dying men to know when nothing could be done.

A woman with child, however, was a new entity for Cas. Perhaps Meg had told Dean because she knew that he’d tell Cas and she wouldn’t have to. Perhaps she knew where his heart truly lay. Regardless, she was heavy with child by March, and everyone in town could tell. She was still working, as long as the men didn’t mind, and none of them did. Cas minded, however, as she claimed it was his baby. He didn’t go see her anymore—not as a client, at least—but it had nothing to do with the baby. 

It had nothing to do with Dean Winchester, either.

At least that was what Cas told himself as he faced his reflection in the shaving mirror every morning. His reflection wasn’t quite as convinced. Neither was Meg. The respectable thing to do was, of course, to marry her.

“Could you sound any less interested,” she’d drawled when he brought it up. “You might as well be askin’ me to bury you next to your mother.”

“I’m not asking you to marry me, I’m asking what you’re planning on doing about the baby.”

“Ellen’ll take it,” she answered. “God help any child I’m goin’ to raise.”

“What about me?”

“You want to give it your name? You want to make me an honest woman?” 

“I won’t abandon a child, Meg,” he said, his eyes narrowing. Many a man had run from that stare, but Meg stood her ground.

“And leave the both of us miserable?” She shut the curtain behind him so prying eyes and prying ears couldn’t snoop. She leaned in close, her protruding belly brushing against his arm. “I’m not who you want, and I’d never be able to forgive you for that.”

Cas hadn’t brought it up again. She couldn’t have been more right, no matter how much he’d like to deny it. The truth was, he couldn’t offer his unborn child anything that he wasn’t already receiving from better suited caretakers. Meg was under the watchful gaze of Ellen, and she had a roof over her head, which was more than Cas could provide. The one job Cas could do was to keep the town safe, so his child would have someplace to grow big and strong.

On that front, Cas was failing. For three months, they’d been tracking Lucifer’s gang with no luck. The man himself had never shown his face in town, but his signature was all over his gang’s activities. They were ruthless and indiscriminate, attacking a convoy of soldiers leaving Fort Larned one week, and robbing a family of settlers the next. The stage company had suspended the coach, as it had been attacked so often, which left Cas with a half-built foundation and not enough wood to finish the house. It was a minor inconvenience compared to the loss of life and property the gang was inflicting on the citizens of Perdition and the surrounding land, but one constantly on his mind as Meg’s belly grew. He needed to focus—on the baby, on Meg, on catching Lucifer and his gang—but his mind was always elsewhere. 

He should never have invited Dean to Perdition.

* * *

_**Somewhere in Virginia, September 6, 1863** _

_The new recruits had had their first test. For such a battle-hardened unit, incorporating new recruits had been a troublesome transition. The bruises from Jonah Engel’s fists had turned yellow and green over the past few weeks, but it had been worth it to teach all the men the respect they hadn’t yet learned._

_The mail had arrived while they were on expedition, and the men were all occupied with letters from home. Cas had several from his sister, Anna, one in response to his fight with Engel. She wrote that she hoped that Cas’s fists had taught him humility and manners. Her post-script also indicated that she would have bet on Cas to win hands down. He had to smile at her words. Of all his siblings, Anna was the one who had been most understanding of Cas leaving his studies to join the war. He hadn’t seen her since receiving his commission, and her being so far away became ever more poignant with her correspondence._

_“Mail came?” Captain Ishim of Company B, asked, as he stepped into their shared tent._

_“Yes, your letters are over there,” Cas pointed t0 Ishim’s cot, which held a neat pile of correspondence._

_“My wife’s probably going to give me grief about her kid,” he groused as he sorted through the envelopes. “Brat’s not even mine.”_

_Cas snuck out of the tent, to let Ishim complain about his family in peace. Or at least as far away from Cas as possible. He was a recent transfer and was about as pleasant as a mess of greybacks._

_“Oof,” a low voice said as Cas made contact with a firm body._

_“Dean?” Cas looked up into familiar green eyes; he was surprised to find them rimmed with red. “Are you unwell?”_

_“I was coming to find you,” Dean breathed. “I got a—I got a letter.”_

_“Was there bad news?” he asked gently, putting a chaste hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean nodded emphatically; he looked young and frightened and so unlike the brash NCO Cas knew. “Is your tent empty? Mine is not.”_

_“Yeah, Garth is on guard duty,” Dean nodded. “Won’t be back for hours.”_

_They walked through the camp and into Dean’s darkened tent. Cas had only just closed the flap when Dean was upon him, pulling Cas towards him in a hot but brutal kiss._

_“Dean?” Cas gasped between kisses._

_“Just kiss me,” Dean pleaded, deepening the kiss. It was so easy to fall into it— Dean’s pliant mouth, his firm hands tugging Cas closer. It was everything they’d had at Gettysburg and more; Cas was unable to resist. Whatever bad news Dean had received, it could wait. For now, Cas was content to provide comfort in the desperate slide of their bodies. A few buttons, and their cocks were free to rub against each other unencumbered._

_The race to the finish was swift. Dean stiffened in Cas’s arms and wetness spread over his stomach, soiling the rough wool of his shirt and waistcoat. Cas sighed into Dean’s neck as he followed a moment later, his seed mingling with Dean’s between their sweat-soaked bodies._

_Spent and satisfied, they tucked themselves onto Dean’s cot, a tight fit for two such tall men. Dean leaned his head against Cas’s chest, as his breathing calmed and evened out. It was a dangerous luxury to lie together, as there was little privacy provided by the cloth of the tent. This was another thing Cas was unable to resist; Dean’s warmth and affection were worth as much as his passions._

_They lay in silence for moments, Cas giving as much comfort as he was able. Finally, he could delay no longer. “What happened?” he asked._

_“I can’t—“ Dean began, tearing up again. “We’re out here, facing danger every day. We nearly died at Gettysburg, just two months ago. That’s the way it’s supposed to be; we’re soldiers. They’re not supposed to go after innocent people at home in their beds.”_

_“Dean?” Cas sat up; Dean was forced to the do the same. His eyes were hollow and distant, a shadow of the usual brightness of his soul._

_“Bushwackers marched into Lawrence—they—they killed my pa. My ma’s a widow, now. Cas”—his voice turned hoarse and desperate—"they don’t know where my brother is; he may have had something to do with it.”_

_Cas clutched Dean tight to him, stroking his arms soothingly. “Do you believe that possible?”_

_“He and pa clashed all the time,” Dean admitted. “I don’t know.”_

_Cas ran his hand through Dean’s hair; it stood up in the wake of his fingers. Dean sighed and pressed further into Cas, burying his face into the spot between Cas’s shoulder and neck. Cas could not imagine he smelled especially fragrant, but Dean inhaled deeply nonetheless and relaxed into him._

_“I never knew my father,” Cas whispered. “He died when I was very young—before my sister was born.”_

_“Cas,” Dean breathed, his words muted by their closeness. “I’m sorry.”_

_“Shhh,” Cas soothed him. “Old wounds. They healed, as yours will.”_

* * *

**Perdition, Kansas, March 1872**

For one day, Sam hoped they could put their search for Lucifer out of mind. Amelia was at her house, preparing herself for the wedding, while Sam readied the saloon, seeing to its decorations of garlands and nosegays. Amelia had wanted to get married out of her home, but Cas wouldn’t leave the town unprotected with Lucifer on the loose, so the saloon was the only building large enough for all the guests—unless they wanted to get married in one of the cells at the jail. 

They didn’t, in fact.

“Only for you, Sammy, would I hang flowers,” Dean said, standing on top of a chair, a garland in hand.

“Thanks,” Sam replied. Dean had been facetious, but Sam appreciated having his brother by his side this day more than words could possibly express.

Dean dropped his side of the garland and let out a swear.

“Language, Winchester, there are ladies present.”

He fixed Meg with the evilest stare Sam had ever seen. “I don’t see no ladies,” he growled.

“You better get a muzzle for you attack dog, Marshal,” she drawled. “Or is he all bark and no bite?”

Cas looked between the two and let out a rueful laugh. “Behave,” he ordered.

Dean let out a bark of a laugh. “Yes, Captain.” 

The tension in the room was immediately broken, so Sam let himself relax. He tacked the last nosegay along the front of the bar, hiding where two garlands met. “I’m going to get more things from the wagon!” he shouted, leaving his friends to their bickering and flirting. Not that he was suggesting Dean and Cas were flirting; he wasn’t a fool. Men didn’t flirt with other men, despite how their fighting over Meg seemed to have less to do with Meg and more to do with…he wasn’t quite sure.

Amelia’s wagon was parked next to the saloon, near where Benny Lafitte had parked his chuck wagon. Benny was sitting in the front seat, eating an apple; he waved at Sam, but Sam didn’t return the favor. Sam gathered up the last of the flowers and turned back around to carry them into the saloon, making his way by memory with the pile of blooms blocking his sight.

He was about to the corner when he suddenly collided with something person-sized. “Oof,” a female voice exclaimed. The flowers were knocked out of his arms, scattering to the ground. He bent down to pick them up when the voice said his name.

Looking up, he saw the face he wouldn’t have wished to see ever again, especially not on this day of all days. “Ruby.”

“I heard congratulations are in order,” she mewled.

“Do you want to congratulate me?” Sam asked. He started to pick up the strewn flowers; Ruby didn’t help.

“I want to convince you that the respectable life is boring. Wouldn’t you rather be extraordinary?” she said, her eyes flashing frighteningly.

“I like boring. Anyway, being a deputy is far from boring.” 

“So you’ll stay a lawman?” she smirked. “I would have thought your bride would want you to join her in the cattle business.”

Sam was taken aback. Even Dean hadn’t realized that Sam would leave his position after the wedding. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” he lied.

“You once wanted to escape life on a farm, Sam. I helped you with that. I could help you again.”

“So you do still run with Lucifer’s gang,” Sam suggested.

She stepped forward as he grabbed for another garland, stopping the end underfoot so he couldn’t pick it up. “You see us as outlaws, but we’re not. We’re freedom fighters, Sam.”

“Your own freedom, perhaps.”

“What is there more important than personal freedom, Sam?”

Sam sighed. “Honor, community obligations, dignity, doing the right thing?”

“How naïve,” she scoffed and picked up one of the nosegays, bringing it to her nose and sniffing it. 

“Where’s Lucifer?”

“Everywhere,” she said in a voice that most people would have saved for speaking about God. Sam supposed Lucifer was her god, in a way. She had served him willingly and loyally for years. She must have alerted him to the money on the stage the hoteliers had been carrying to open a hotel. Her presence in Perdition was certainly not coincidental.

“We’ll stop him,” Sam warned. 

“You’ll fail. There is only one option, Sam. Join him. Join him and become a Knight of Hell.” She reached out to take his hand in a tender but quick motion. She brought it towards her bosom, tucking it against her beating heart. “I’ll be by your side, my love.”

He pulled her hand away, but she lost her balance and was sent flying to the ground. She rose and clawed at him, tearing at his clothes and shrieking.

“Hey, lady, leave him alone,” a deep voice with a southern drawl said suddenly, and someone pulled her off of him.

She was little trouble for Benny to subdue, even as she continued striking out with her hands and legs.

“This is no way for a lady to act,” he continued. “You O.K., brother?”

They were quickly joined by Dean and Cas, weapons raised and at the ready. Dean saw the struggling woman and lowered his weapon, but Cas kept his raised. A nod from Dean, however, and Cas let his down as well.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Dean asked, annoyance obvious in his voice.

“Lucifer will rise,” Ruby cried out.

Sam dusted himself off. He was grateful he hadn’t changed into his best suit for the wedding yet. “Can you take care of her,” he said dismissively.

“We can’t put a lady in the jail,” Cas exclaimed offended by the very suggestion.

“She’s one of Lucifer’s,” Dean argued. “Jail is where her sort belongs.”

“Dean,” Cas warned. “We haven’t the equipment to keep a lady in the jail.”

Sam couldn’t help but let out a snicker at the visuals his imagination supplied. Ruby pissing in the bucket they kept in the corner, crouching with her petticoats raised. Ruby eating Cas’s overcooked beans and dry biscuits from a tin plate that they sometimes tossed between each other behind the jailhouse as a game. Ruby sleeping on a hay filled mattress they hadn’t refilled since Dean and Sam had arrived in Perdition.

“Go back to your master,” Sam offered. “Tell him we’ll find him and see him hanged.”

“Never,” she spat, freeing herself from Benny’s grip and stomping off.

* * *

Dean wished his ma could be there for Sam’s wedding, but the journey was too hard. Convincing Sam to delay the wedding until the train arrived later in the year had been a fail. Sam argued—convincingly—that building hadn’t yet resumed on the tracks, and they had no way of knowing when that would be. With Lucifer on the loose, there was no point in waiting, he thought. Dean, on the other hand, knew of nothing but waiting—waiting for Cas to finally realize he wanted to marry Meg and be a real father to his child. It hadn’t happened yet, but Dean knew better than anyone that happiness just wasn’t in the cards for him. 

That didn’t mean he couldn’t revel in whatever happiness Sam found on the barren prairie. He watched his brother stand in front of a preacher and say his vows surrounded by the people of Perdition, who’d become a part of their lives. Every one of Amelia’s cowhands who had survived Lucifer’s slaughter were lined up as she walked down the aisle. Bobby had given her away, and he stood proudly off to the side as she took Sam’s hands in her own. Next to Dean, Cas’s face was unreadable, no evidence as to whether he was thinking of a wedding of his own as he watched the happy bride and groom. 

“I, Sam, take thee, Amelia, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I pledge thee my faith.”

Dean’s heart beat faster as he imagined himself saying those vows, Cas’s large, elegant, manly hands in his. Sam would be at his side, grinning from ear to ear. Their ma would be there, too, and she’d finally know the part of Dean he’d kept secret all these years. She’d embrace Cas like she would have a daughter-in-law, happy that her son had known true love. Dean was so deep into his daydream that he missed half the ceremony, but then something in the back caught his eye. Meg was standing in the doorway to the brothel, her stomach large and round, watching the wedding with round eyes.

Dean felt for her, despite his jealousy. For whatever reason, Cas hadn’t yet proposed, despite the scandal of it all. Meg could talk all she wanted about freedom, but it wouldn’t make the rejection easier to take. Cas didn’t love her, not the way she loved him. Dean knew how that felt, and it hurt more than words could say. Though, in his deepest fantasies, Dean wished it was for his sake that Cas hadn’t made an honest woman of her. 

Meg disappeared into the brothel just as the preacher pronounced the couple man and wife and those assembled in the saloon let out a cheer. The guests filtered out quickly, heading over to Cas’s property where the party was being set up, while a photographer—he traveled with the preacher all over the western frontier—got his camera ready.

“The happy couple in the center,” he directed. Bobby and the preacher were to one side, while Cas and Dean stood next to Sam. “That’s not going to work,” the photographer lamented, as Sam’s height proved difficult to fit in the photograph. A chair was fetched so that Sam and Amelia could be seated in front, Cas directly behind him and Dean to the side. Behind Sam, their hands drifted close together. Dean grabbed it just as the magnesium lit, throwing the room full of smoke as they held still for the photograph.

Dean dropped Cas’s hand before the group dispersed. They stepped out into the spring sunshine, Sam’s and Amelia’s clasped hands raised above their heads, and the wedding party trailing behind. 

“Sam Winchester. Well, well, well.”

The party stopped where they were, Dean bumping into Bobby ahead of him. 

“Lucifer,” Sam muttered, holding his new wife close and safe. Dean wanted to do the same with Cas.

The man who stood in the middle of the street was tall, with fair hair; he was visibly unarmed, though he could have had any number of weapons hidden on his person like Dean—and Cas—did. He didn’t look like the devil; Dean could have passed him by any number of times and not known who he was. Beside Dean, Cas’s hand went instinctively to his revolver, but Dean stopped him with a small shake of his head. Cas gave him a confused glare, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head to the side like a bird.

“Is this your lovely bride?” Lucifer asked with a sneer. He gave Amelia a lascivious look over; she shuddered in the wake of his stare. 

“You killed my cowhands,” she shrieked, anger making her brave and more than worthy of Sam, though her new husband slid in front of her protectively.

“Your men killed Ansem,” Lucifer shrugged. “I liked him.”

“What do you want?” Sam asked. Anyone who knew him less well than Dean would have thought him unafraid, but Dean could hear the tiny break in his voice that indicated he was terrified.

“To toast the happy couple,” Lucifer drawled. “You’re the one that got away, Sammy. I’ve missed you.”

“You killed my father.”

“Well, yes,” Lucifer admitted casually. “I did that for you, Sam.”

It was Dean’s turn to reach for his gun, and Cas’s turn to stop him. The grip of Cas’s hand on Dean’s wrist was a calming presence, and he let it distract him from the situation at hand.

“You aren’t wanted here,” Sam declared. 

“And you’re authorized to make that decision, _deputy_?”

“Perhaps not,” Cas said, “but I am.” His rough voice grew almost deeper with authority.

“Ah, Marshal,” Lucifer said, a pleased drawl to his voice. “We’ve never had the pleasure. However, I do believe you know a few of my associates.”

From behind the general store, two men stepped forward. They, unlike their boss, were armed—a revolver each—but only three limbs between them. One of them had his arm cut off above the elbow, while the other was tall, with long, grayed hair and a thick beard.

“You know them?” Dean asked Cas quietly.

“I don’t remember ever shooting a one-armed man,” Cas mused, unaffected by the new arrival.

“I had an arm before you shot me,” the man in question growled.

“I’ve shot a lot of men,” Cas said, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Cas, are you trying to get us killed?” Dean whispered. 

“Of course not,” Cas whispered back, then turned to the situation at hand. “Where did I shoot you?”

“In the arm!”

“Uh, Ramiel, I think he meant where were we at the time,” the other newcomer offered helpfully.

“Cheyenne,” Ramiel growled.

Cas’s eyes narrowed dangerously and rubbed at his right shoulder where Dean knew he had a scar. “Not a lot of men have gotten a shot in on me. You’re lucky you just lost an arm.”

“We lost our loot, too,” the taller man complained.

“You shouldn’t have tried to frame me for robbing the train,” Cas said, the very model of the gunfighter he used to be. “I was very inconvenienced.”

Lucifer watched the scene with amusement, smiling and nodding at Sam to see if he was enjoying it, too. “Sammy, we can avoid a messy situation if you would just come with me. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Tell that to the people on the stage,” Dean growled.

Lucifer turned to Dean, an interested glint in his eye. “Brother Dean,” he drawled. “I’ve heard so much about you. Some of it was good, even.” Dean hazarded a look at his brother, who straightened uncomfortably. “The people on the stage, they wouldn’t give up their valuables. That left me with no choice. Don’t you go and make the same mistake. I’m not an evil man.”

Cas had his gun hand at the ready, his body tense in preparation. He was tightly coiled, like a snake ready to strike, but he wouldn’t fire the first shot. “You’re not taking Sam,” he said.

“Are you sure?” Lucifer asked. Three more outlaws stepped from between buildings. Dean recognized one of the men as Ruby’s husband from the first stage robbery, which was no surprise. Ruby was nowhere to be seen, but she was likely still around. She was as entwined in Lucifer’s gang as she had been when she’d seduced Sam away from his home and family near ten years ago. They shouldn’t have let her go earlier; she’d probably gone straight to Lucifer and told him everything about the wedding so he could lie in wait for them.

Lucifer now had five men in front of the saloon, which meant the lawmen were outnumbered by outlaws. Sam wasn’t wearing a sidearm, as it was his wedding day, and Bobby didn’t carry a revolver in town as per his own law. He probably had a rifle in his wagon, and Ellen undoubtedly had one inside, but they were outgunned nonetheless.

“You’re flaunting the laws of this town,” Cas said. “Put your guns away and there won’t be any trouble.”

Lucifer let out a laugh, bitter and derisive. It seemed to be the only sound around, the world frozen in time, and then, suddenly, the silence was broken.

Dean couldn’t tell who had fired the first shot, but Cas had fired the second before Dean could even get his revolver out. Sam grabbed his new wife and dove into the saloon, Bobby dove to the right, leaving Cas and Dean alone and in the line of fire. Dean stepped off the porch as the outlaws scattered, Cas taking one down with deadly accuracy. He was firing steadily but only at the armed men. Lucifer seemed immune to the firefight, standing in the street, watching as if amused, bullets flying but missing him completely. Dean rushed to the left, where Benny’s chuck wagon was parked and would provide him cover. He wondered how much ammunition Cas had hidden in his suit and whether there was enough for both of them.

Dean fired off a few shots from his new position, so that Cas could dash off the porch and join him. Riflefire came from near Bobby’s position on the other side of the saloon—he’d probably headed for his wagon—and Sam had clearly found a weapon in the saloon, as shots were being fired from one of the windows. Dean dodged a bullet from Ruby’s husband; it pinged off the wagon wheel, grazing his arm and leaving a trail of red on his coat. 

“You good?” Cas asked.

“I’m fine,” Dean sighed. “It barely scratched me.”

“Keep it that way,” Cas growled and fired off another shot. He needed to reload; he ejected the cartridges and they fell at their feet as he pulled a box from his coat pocket. “I’ve got another twelve in my boot, and then I’m out.”

Dean fired off his last two shots towards the one-armed man. “Six of those for me?” 

Cas dug into his boot and pulled out another box, which he tossed to Dean.

“Make them count.”

* * *

Sam had found three rifles behind the bar, and he kicked out one of the windows of the saloon to shoot into the fray. He’d secured Amelia, the preacher who’d married them, and the photographer safely behind the piano in the back of the saloon. She’d not gone willingly, but Sam had silenced her with a kiss to her forehead. He could not lose his wife before the wedding night.

From his position in the saloon, Sam could see the whole fight in the street before him. Lucifer was just standing in the center watching the bullets fly. It would be so easy to take him out. He was a standing target, and it could easily be called an accident if he were caught in the crossfire. Cas may have had his standards, but Sam thought it was a waste of an easy shot. 

“Sammy, come on out,” Lucifer cried, in a sing-song voice. “Or I’ll kill your brother, I’ll kill your friends, and I’ll kill your wife.”

Dean’s voice carried over the sounds of gunfire. “Eat lead, dirtbag.”

Lucifer jumped as someone fired at him. It was a near miss, which either meant that Dean had fired and missed, or that Cas had fired a purposeful warning shot. Either possibility made Sam redouble his effort to take out as many of Lucifer’s men as possible. Lucifer finally took cover, running towards where several of his men were hiding.

One of Lucifer’s gang shot through the window and hit the bar; the bullet pinged as it hit the metal front. “Sam!” Amelia cried from her safe location.

“I’m fine!” he called back, but she rushed forward anyway. “Get back,” he warned her.

She picked up one of the rifles, cocked it, and took position at the other side of the window. Sam felt a surge of love for his new wife, alongside the fear of putting her in danger. 

Sam picked up the third rifle and fired another shot. He wished he had a revolver, as a rifle was slow to reload and unwieldy. Even with the two of them firing, the time to reload the rifles made them little help in the firefight. Cas and Dean were keeping up steady fire with their revolvers, but they’d soon run out of ammunition. Sam hadn’t found any behind the bar, but perhaps there was some in the brothel.

“Father!” he called to the preacher hiding in the back. “Can you go check next door for any guns and ammunition they might have?”

“In a house of ill repute?” he asked, gingerly stepping forward from behind the piano. 

“Dear God,” Amelia mumbled, shoving the rifle into the preacher’s hand and heading through the door. “I’ll go.”

* * *

Amelia had never been in a brothel before, but it looked just like the boarding house where her father had stayed in Wichita, with a long hallway down the center and rooms off to each side. A small lobby faced the street, so that men could ask if a lady was free whether they came from the front door or the connected saloon.

“Don’t be a fool,” Jo was saying. Martin Creaser was standing at the front window watching the gunfight, and Jo and Donna were trying to tug him back.

“The lawmen are outnumbered, I’ve got to out there and help them,” Martin insisted.

“That’s asking for trouble,” Jo replied.

“I fought at Shiloh,” Martin countered. “I know my way around a rifle.”

Before Amelia could tell him that he should go next door and help Sam, Martin rushed through the door into the street, heading for where Bobby Singer was firing behind his wagon. The women watched in horror as he was gunned down feet from the front step. 

Donna rushed forward to help him, but Amelia held her back. 

“We can’t help him now,” she warned. “Sam sent me for revolver ammunition and any weapons. Is there anything here?”

“Cas left a few boxes of ammunition in my room,” a voice drawled from the hallway. Meg stepped out, heavy with child. “Ellen keeps a rifle or two in the saloon.”

“Sam’s got those,” Amelia explained. 

“And Cas?” Meg asked. Her manner was casual, but Amelia could hear the concern in her voice.

“He’s in the street with Dean, they’re giving the outlaws hell.”

“That’s my boy,” Meg grinned, rubbing her round stomach. She turned back to her room and emerged with several boxes of cartridges. Instead of handing them to Amelia, she rushed into the saloon.

“Meg,” Amelia called after her, rushing into the saloon herself. “It’s not safe.”

Sam and the preacher were still at the window, alternating firing and reloading. “Dean and Cas are out of cartridges,” he said grimly.

“Where are they?” Meg asked.

Sam was surprised to see her, but answered the question with a curt nod towards Cas and Dean’s position on the left. When he saw the boxes of ammunition Meg had, he breathed a sigh of relief. Amelia ran a soothing hand across his head; his hair was overly long. She’d cut it for him in the next week. She wouldn’t let these men take Sam away from her the way the rebels had taken Don from her. 

“I need to get this ammunition to Dean, or he and Cas are sitting ducks,” Sam remarked. He held out his hands for the boxes Meg carried, but she looked to him and out to the firefight in the street, and pushed through the door.

“Meg, no!” Amelia cried.

“They won’t shoot a woman with child,” Meg declared haughtily as she stepped into the sun.

* * *

Cas discharged his last cartridges. Dean still had three shots left in his weapon, but he passed it on to Cas. “You’ll do better with it,” he explained.

Cas took the offered revolver, handing Dean his own, despite it being out of ammunition. He had to make his last three shots count, so he surveyed the area. One of the outlaws had fallen in the street at the beginning of the gunfight, two more were in front of the cigar shop, and, on the other side of the Clothing Goods, his old friends from Cheyenne were flanking their boss, who’d been handed a rifle and was making good use of it. Cas chose the tall one with the gray hair, and fired a shot, aiming for his right shoulder. It made contact and he was thrown backwards. Lucifer looked at him, making eye contact, then he and Ramiel moved towards where the other two were better hidden. Cas fired his last two shots at them as they ran, but he missed. He let out a swear, causing Dean to let out an amused laugh even in the face of their imminent defeat.

They were out of ammunition and vulnerable. There was nothing to do but retreat to regroup another day. Dean called to Sam for help, but there was nothing he could do. There was no downtime in shooting a rifle; if you weren’t firing, you had to be reloading. At Gettysburg, they’d solved the problem by lining up four deep, but they didn’t have nearly enough men for that, let alone weapons. Sam couldn’t spare the time to find them ammunition.

“Dean,” Cas started, intending to tell him to make his way behind the saloon where he’d be safe. Dean’s eyes, however, grew wide with surprise.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, causing Cas to turn around and see Meg dashing to their position.

“I’ve got cartridges for you boys,” she drawled, a smirk on her face. She handed over three boxes that Cas recognized as his own. He’d stashed ammunition all over town, and that had included Meg’s room at the brothel.

“Are you mad?!” Dean continued, pushing Meg into cover behind him. The chuck wagon was large, but the outlaws had shifted position, so that their angle made better targets of Dean, Cas, and now Meg. 

Despite the foolhardiness of her mission, Dean took a box from her and loaded Cas’s gun, passing it back to him in exchange for his own, which he also reloaded.

“I’m going to the other side of the lot,” Cas said, pocketing another two boxes of the cartridges. “I’ll draw their fire. Can you get Meg back into safety?”

Dean’s eyes were drawn to Meg’s round belly, and he gave Cas a curt nod of acknowledgement. Cas dashed in front of the wagon, heading for a rain barrel next to the half-built bakery, its unfinished brick chimney towering above him. He fired off a volley as he moved, aiming nowhere important, just to draw attention to his new position.

For a moment, it seemed to have worked; Dean—and Meg—was taking less fire. Ramiel turned all his attention towards Cas, firing what must have been all his ammunition in the chamber. He needed to reload, and that was a difficult feat with only one arm, so Cas fired off his last bullet and did the same—only twice as fast. Things were going according to plan, and Cas hoped Dean and Meg had begun their dash back to the saloon, but then Lucifer raised his rifle and fired towards the chuck wagon.

From his position on the other side of the lot, Cas saw the trajectory of the bullet before it made its way towards the wagon.

“Dean!” he cried out, as a strangled cry cut through the noise. He rushed to the other side, unafraid of bullets but terrified of what he’d see behind the wagon. 

Dean was face down on the ground, shielding Meg with his body. There was no sign of blood, thank God, but Cas felt a chill to the bone. In his panic, he’d forgotten about Meg, heavy with his child.

Dean rose uneasily. His clothes were dirty, but intact, and he seemed unhurt. Cas breathed a sigh of relief as he examined his deputy for injuries.

“Well, aren’t you a gentleman,” Meg drawled from the ground. “Help me up?”

“No,” Dean and Cas said at the same time. Meg was safer on the ground, where she was less of a target.

Without Dean and Cas keeping up their volley, the gap in the firefight gave the outlaws the upper hand, and they used the slowness of Bobby and Sam’s rifles to sneak through the alley between the two stores. They were probably nearly out of ammunition themselves, and Cas took off in pursuit, dashing across the street, and into the alley. 

When Cas emerged into the sunlight, the four outlaws were already mounted on horseback. Two horses were riderless, and a seventh carried a figure Cas recognized as Ruby. He fired his last few shots after them, but they galloped off into the great wide unknown. Without a horse, himself—as his was still unsaddled in the paddock behind the jailhouse—he couldn’t pursue.

He returned to the saloon, where Sam had emerged. He and Dean had the injured outlaw by the arms; he was howling fruitlessly in pain, but the men were not gentle with him.

Dean glanced at Cas as he approached them, his eyes serious and sad. Cas could hardly look at him. It was one thing to forsake a woman’s life in favor of a man’s, but to deny an unborn child its chance at life in favor of a male lover was unforgiveable.

Castiel was the worst sort of man: selfish, perverted, and, therefore, doomed.

* * *

The firefight was over; Bobby set his rifle down for the first time in what felt like forever. Dean came into view from the alley, looking none the worse for wear. He made a cursory search of the area, then waved an arm in the air as an all-clear signal. The outlaws were gone, pursued by the Marshal, so Bobby felt safe in stepping out from his own protection. 

When still no shot rang out in the street, he rushed to where Martin Creaser had fallen during the firefight, not ten feet from the relative safety of Bobby’s wagon. He had one wound to the ribcage; it was bleeding steadily, turning his torn shirt red. 

“Martin?” Bobby asked, kneeling next to the wounded man. Martin let out a pained moan and writhed on the ground. There was nothing to be done but to put pressure on the wound and hope to stop the bleeding.

They were soon joined by some of the girls from Ellen’s; they rushed out into the street. Bobby wanted to warn them that there might still be outlaws around, but Martin would surely die if he didn’t get help.

“I’m getting Benny,” Jo announced, taking off as fast as her little legs could take her. Benny’s wagon had been in the middle of the shootout; Bobby figured Cas and Dean had used it as protection. If Benny had been inside, he’d be in no position to help anyone.

“Bobby,” Martin croaked. “I want you to take down my will.”

“Help is coming, Martin,” Bobby reassured the injured man. “You’ll be fine.” It was a lie; the blood was still streaming out of Martin’s wound. Bobby doubted even Benny had the skills to save him, but it was worth a try. 

From next door, Sam Winchester and his new wife emerged. Sam also scanned the area, looking for his brother and the Marshal. When he caught sight of his brother across the street, his large body visibly relaxed. Beside him, Amelia spotted Martin on the ground and rushed over to help. Bobby was grateful, as Amelia had experience dealing with wounded men and animals.

“Have you stopped the bleeding?” she asked, paying no mind to her lace-trimmed dress getting soiled.

Bobby answered her with a small shake of his head. Martin’s writhing was making it difficult to keep constant pressure on the wound. She lifted away Bobby’s hands to see for herself, and another gush of blood flowed out from the wound.

“Martin, you’re going to be fine,” Sam offered.

Martin scoffed and it turned into a pained cough. Finally, from around the corner, Bobby could see Jo. Benny was following close behind.

“Can you believe my horse threw a shoe?” Benny admitted, his eyes round and frightened. He was a lucky man, or he would have likely perished in his bullet-docked wagon. He crouched down next to Bobby and examined the wound, leaving Bobby’s hands in place as he poked around them.

“Don’t touch me,” Martin demanded.

“I’m just tryin’ to help, brother,” Benny answered gently.

“I don’t”—he let out another croaky moan—“want your kind of help.”

“His kind of help saves lives,” Bobby argued.

“His filthy hands probably killed a lot of brave Union boys.”

“I was a ship captain,” Benny explained. “I ran the blockade until they captured me. I didn’t kill anyone. I learned medicine from a Union doctor who treated the prisoners.”

“Get away from me, rebel scum.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Bobby offered. Martin probably wasn’t thinking straight; no man would turn down medical care.

Benny and Amelia shared a look over the dying man’s prone body he stepped away. “I’ll take care of you,” Amelia offered. “My husband”—she glanced upwards towards Sam Winchester—"my first husband—served for New York. What about you?”

“77th Pennsylvania,” Martin croaked. “Best men I’ve ever known.” 

Dean called his brother away from the scene, but Sam left reluctantly, trailing his hand over his wife’s shoulder as she remained by the dying man’s side. One of the outlaws was struggling against Dean’s strong arms despite his injury, but the two Winchesters were able to subdue him. They were soon joined by the Marshal, who returned dejected and forlorn. The outlaws had escaped, then. 

“Damn them all to hell!”

The skies opened up and rain began to pour onto the street. The onlookers remained, however: Jo and Donna huddled together, Benny, standing there watching in uselessness, and Amelia sitting by Martin’s side, listening to his tales of war, bravery, and honor. Slowly, the Marshal approached the group.

“Benny, when you’re done here, we could use your help at the jailhouse.”

“I don’t think I’m needed here any longer, brother,” Benny answered, and headed towards the jail. 

“Martin, I’ve…I’ve brought the preacher,” Cas said, and, for the first time, Bobby noticed the man all but cowering behind him. The preacher kneeled next to the dying man and began to pray, the water falling from the sky acting as a second baptism for the sake of his soul as it washed his blood into the muddy street.

* * *

_**Lawrence, Kansas, August 26, 1863** _

_The whole town of Lawrence might have well been covered with a shroud for what it looked like, as Sam wandered its darkened streets. The few lighted windows were far between, and they lit the way home. He’d been walking for days, he was certain; his feet were bloody where he’d worn through his shoes. His empty stomach growled angrily, but he’d run out of food that morning, and he wasn’t about to steal to eat—not from the people of Lawrence at least._

_He walked for hours more, passing the outer limits of the town and stepping into empty fields. He’d missed the harvest; his father would have had to handle it all himself. With Dean away at war and Sam gone, there would have been no one to help. The fields were now as empty as the houses he’d passed; death swept over all._

_There were no lights on in the Winchester house, either, but Mary was probably long asleep. Perhaps she was staying with friends in the wake of the tragedy, and their house would be empty, too. Nevertheless, he walked through the fields he once helped his father sow and stepped up to the back porch. The house was disheveled as if someone had upended cupboards and tipped over tables in anger. Had Lucifer done this too?_

_“Who’s there?” a familiar voice called out. “I have a weapon. I’m not afraid of you.”_

_Sam nearly collapsed where he stood. He’d not heard that voice in what felt like a lifetime. “Ma?”_

_“Sam?” she said. She then appeared in the doorway to her bedroom, white nightgown gleaming in the dim light. “Sammy?”_

_He rushed to her and embraced her, burying his head against her shoulders and sobbing. “I’m so sorry, ma. I’m so sorry.”_

_She pulled away suddenly. “Sam, what do you know about what happened? Quantrill’s men…you aren’t one of them, are you?”_

_“No, no, Ma,” Sam stammered._

_She looked at him sternly, then moved to light a lantern which cast the room into brightness. “We thought you’d run away to join one of those bushwacker gangs.”_

_Sam looked to the floor. “I did, Ma. But I never hurt anyone. I’d never hurt Pa.”_

_“You hurt him when you ran away, Sammy,” his mother said. Her tone wasn’t cold, but it was exactly forgiving, either. Sam knew he didn’t deserve her forgiveness; he didn’t deserve anyone’s forgiveness. “Have you written your brother?”_

_“No, I…I came straight here after I found out. I ran away when I found out what Quantrill’s men had done, what people I considered friends had done with them. I’ll never go back, Ma. I’ll never go back.”_

* * *

**Perdition, Kansas, March 1872**

The rain poured steadily on through the rest of the day.

Martin was laid out in the saloon, whose broken windows had been hastily covered with boards. The dead outlaw was in there, too, but without the respect the townspeople had given to Martin. The outlaw that Cas had shot in the shoulder was still alive, however. Benny had patched him up the best he could, and he was asleep in one of the jail cells. He’d given them his name, Cain, which was probably a pseudonym given its biblical associations. It seemed all of the members of the gang had taken false names in the vein of Lucifer.

The rest of the injured had been tended to, as well. Dean’s arm was a minor thing; he’d been hurt worse by Walker’s knife last year. Sam hand was pretty badly cut up, but Amelia tended to that for her new husband. Cas watched them as she tenderly bandaged the wounds, kissing each finger as she wrapped it, and felt a wave of longing. It was quickly replaced by a wave of guilt and shame. He should not sully the love between a husband and wife by comparing it to his feelings for Dean. A man could never love a man that way, and what lonely men got to during wartime was a necessity brought on by circumstances.

It was a lie he had told himself for years; it was starting to wear thin. 

They’d done what they could to salvage Sam and Amelia’s wedding day. Most of the guests from the wedding had been safe at Cas’s property during the shootout, and they were still ready to celebrate despite the tragedy. The couple had been toasted with punch, and a potluck supper had revived spirits and exhausted bodies. It was a subdued affair, but full of love and admiration for the couple. Afterwards, Sam and Amelia had gone back to her ranch to spend their wedding night together, Cas and Dean having tied tin cans and streamers to the back of the carriage before the wedding. There was nothing left to be done except to settle down for the night and hope the new day brought better things.

“You can’t sleep in your tent, Cas,” Dean insisted, as the last of the visitors took a lazy wagon home. The rain had slowed to a sprinkle, but the clouds in the sky promised rain throughout the night.

“Of course I can, I haven’t finished the house, yet.” Cas looked to where four walls had been raised, bare of boards and roof. It would provide no protection from rain nor wind.

“It’s uninhabitable, Cas!”

They’d used his tent as protection from the rain for the dinner. His cot was taken apart and leaning against a wall, his dresser turned around and unusable. In the dark and the rain, it would take hours to make his tent a home again. 

“There’s an empty cot in the jailhouse,” Dean suggested. “It’s better if we’re both near Cain anyways, in case Lucifer tries to break him out.”

Cas didn’t think that would happen, as Lucifer hadn’t cared about Ansem Weems dying in the jail cell. His own men weren’t worth the risk that Sam Winchester apparently was. However, a wet night on the ground did not sound pleasant after the day’s events, so he packed up a few of his belongings and settled into Sam’s vacant cot.

The room was silent, the horses behind in the paddock and Cain in the jail cell next door were all asleep. Dean’s soft breaths were a constant reminder of his nearness and Cas’s weakness. Cas rolled over, his muscles complaining of their ill treatment during the gunfight, in hopes that he could drown out the sound.

“You O.K.?” Dean asked, sitting up in bed. Cas could hear the cot groan under his weight. Now that Sam was moving into his wife’s homestead, Dean would finally finish building the bed he’d started months earlier.

“Yes,” Cas answered. He sat up as well, all but giving up trying to sleep. “Sore.”

“Yeah, me, too. I hope Sam can still handle his wedding night,” he chuckled. 

“Do you think they’d even be in the mood?” Cas asked.

“Neither of them are blushing virgins, so I think they’ll work something out,” Dean remarked with a suggestive lilt to his voice. “After all, it never stopped us.”

“Speaking of blushing virgins,” Cas offered, his own voice becoming suggestive.

“I wasn’t…” Dean began but trailed off as he came to the realization. “Cas, you had already been engaged.”

“To a respectable girl. Daphne didn’t even let me kiss her on the mouth.”

Dean had come of age on a frontier farm, where he could get away with things like that. Cas’s family would never have tolerated any sort of hanky-panky. He and Daphne had been chaperoned every moment they spent together; Cas had been expected to be a perfect gentleman at every moment, never doing anything to sully her virtue. When he’d gone off to war, it was the first freedom he’d been afforded since childhood. It was not surprising then, that years of pushing down natural lust would result in unnatural acts.

“I’m glad I was your first, rather than some girl who didn’t really care about you,” Dean said earnestly.

The comment ached in Cas’s chest; his resolve was so close to crumbling again like it had that day in the brothel. “It was a unique situation,” he reminded Dean. “It was war.”

“I don’t know, Cas, today felt a bit like war, too.”

“It’s still no excuse for unnatural acts.”

“Unnatural acts?!” Dean’s bed creaked again as he moved. “You fornicate with a prostitute every chance you have—I saw the things you do to her, don’t forget. Those are unnatural acts, too! Any preacher’d call you a sinner sooner than he’d call you a saint.”

“That’s different,” Cas intoned. “You’re talking about buggery.”

“We never got that far,” Dean disagreed, letting out a derisive laugh. He grew quiet and thoughtful, however, in the aftermath. “We could, though,” he added quietly.

“Dean,” Cas scolded. “We aren’t fairies.”

“You wouldn’t like it?” Dean’s voice grew louder. “I’ve put a finger back there, thinkin’ about you. It felt good—I bet you’d feel better.”

“Dean!” Cas scolded again, but his cock stirred at Dean’s dirty words. He’d thought about it, sure, but there hadn’t ever been a chance before and he refused to let himself think about Dean like that since he’d come to Perdition. Dean didn’t say more, for which Cas was grateful. This wasn’t anything they should be talking about. The silence sat heavy in the room, however, a reminder of everything they’d said. Cas’s cock was hard in his drawers, but he left it alone, knowing it’d soften eventually. After a few minutes, of desperate silence, however, Dean started making noises again, tiny little grunts and whimpers as he shifted in his cot, which squeaked in rhythm.

“What are you doing?” Cas asked, though he probably didn’t want to hear the answer.

“Thinkin’ ‘bout you,” Dean answered, breathless.

“Dean,” Cas scolded again, but he couldn’t keep his voice from catching, making his own arousal apparent. He took his cock out of his drawers and wrapped his hand around it. He was already so hard he was leaking out the tip; he smeared his fingers in it and stroked down the length of it, a throaty moan escaping at the contact.

“Cas?” Dean asked tentatively, his voice heavy with lust.

“Yes,” Cas breathed. He stroked his hand upwards, letting it twist around the head. Dean’s hand had always felt better than his did, but this was as close as he had come in years. 

“Cas,” Dean moaned. Even in the darkness, Cas could see that Dean had changed position, and his moans and whimpers had grown in intensity. If Dean was truly fingering himself, Cas wanted to light the lantern and see, but he couldn’t stop the quick and desperate movement of his hand. The thought of being inside Dean caused another bead of liquid to surge out of the tip. He sped up, his breath hurried and shallow. His hips thrust in time with his strokes, as he chased his release like a speeding horse.

Dean’s whimpers increased, his breathy moans becoming more desperate and the squeaks of his cot speeding up. Cas wanted to reach out, to feel Dean’s skin against his like he had at Meg’s, but he was too far away, so he moved his hand, instead, to Dean’s rhythm. All Cas could do was listen as Dean’s sounds reached a crescendo, and then silenced. His own release was sudden and breathtaking; he spilled over his hand and stomach with a strangled, “Dean,” on his lips. 

Dean had collapsed on his stomach; Cas could hear him roll over, gasping. He ran a hand through the stickiness on his skin as his breathing slowed. Cas felt as if his feelings were laid bare, like that night at Gettysburg, when they’d given into their passion for the first time.

He was stronger than this; he had to be.


	9. Lovers and Fools

**Perdition, Kansas, April 25, 1872**

“I’m putting in my notice,” Sam said, slapping a piece of paper on the desk at the front of the jail.

“What?” Dean exclaimed angrily, but Cas was willing to listen. He settled against the edge of the desk, arms crossed.

“I’m going to tend the ranch with my wife,” Sam explained. “We’ve decided, together, that I should retire once Lucifer and his gang are hanged. I’ll be on hand, of course, whenever you need to put together a posse, but my time as a deputy is done.”

“You won’t capture Lucifer,” Cain’s voice came from the cell in the back. “Better lawmen than you have tried and failed.”

“Then we’ll shoot him,” Cas intoned. “Don’t matter to me. I’ll shoot you, too, if you don’t shut up.”

“Cas,” Dean warned.

“You care about him?” Cas asked, exactly how they had planned earlier, though Sam’s announcement had taken them both by surprise. When he’d stomped into the jail, determination on his face, Cas and Dean had been readying to work Cain over.

“Not at all, just, he ain’t worth the trouble,” Dean shrugged. “You already shot him once, and I’ve had to be the one to change his bandages.”

“And your hands are rough,” Cain called from the back.

“I ain’t never had a complaint before,” Dean joked suggestively, waggling his eyebrows for effect. If Cas hadn’t been so fond of him, he would have found it insufferable.

“He’s a criminal,” Cas growled. “He may have been the one to shoot Martin dead. He may have shot me last year in Cheyenne. There ain’t a soul alive who’d care if he died.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Cain shouted from his cell. Something in his tone sounded of pain and loss rather than of self-deprection. That was surprising, and Dean gave Cas a pointed look, suggesting they should change their tactics.

“You ain’t never known love,” Dean scoffed, crossing to the back of the jail where Cain’s cell was. Cas let Dean run with the change of plan; he was eager to see if it paid off.

“Sure I have,” Cain argued. “I weren’t always an outlaw. I had a job. I had a wife.”

Dean let out a bitter huff of laughter. “You were a cuckhold. Your wife let the milkman screw her when you went out to work.”

Cain lunged forward into the bars of his cell. “You shut your lousy, lyin’ mouth,” he shouted angrily. “My wife was an angel.”

“Oh,” Dean exclaimed, changing tact. “Apologies.”

Cain calmed instantly. “Thank you,” he said resentfully, like a spoiled child.

“I suppose you loved her a lot, then,” Dean continued.

“She was my light,” Cain effused. “She was the best woman who ever lived.”

“Then why turn to a life of crime?” Dean asked. This time he was gentle and soft, rather than accusatory.

“She died,” he answered simply, hanging his head in his hand. “It was my fault. I should never have left her alone. Bandits attacked the house and killed her.”

Cas and Sam shared an amused look. An outlaw who turned to crime when his wife was killed by outlaws was certainly an unusual thing. When Dean suggested as such, Cain erupted again.

“Lucifer promised me retribution!”

“How’s that going?” Cas added.

Cain roared against the bars.

“Lucifer doesn’t care about your wife,” Dean continued. “I care, though. I been in love like that before.”

Cain looked up, surprised. Equally surprised was Sam, who frowned confusedly at his brother across the room.

“You haven’t,” Cain disagreed.

“I have, too,” Dean said, a stubborn turn to his voice. “I probably loved more ardently than you could even imagine. I lost…her, too.”

The pause went unnoticed by Sam or Cain, but Cas could feel it to his very bones.

“Did she die?”

“Nah.” Dean glanced back towards where Cas and Sam were still standing. “If she were dead, maybe I could have let her go, but she’s still out there, somewhere; she just doesn’t love me anymore.”

That wasn’t true. Cas still loved him as deeply and truly as ever. It was only that Dean thought that meant something that it didn’t—that it couldn’t. 

“Then it ain’t the same,” Cain groused. “My Colette loved me to the very end.”

Dean moved closer to the bars, feigning confidentiality, but his voice still carried to the front of the jailhouse like he was whispering into Cas’s ear. “Maybe she still loves me, I don’t know. She don’t want to be with me, though, ‘cuz I ain’t what she’s lookin’ for. Now, I can’t change that. I can only love her from a distance, even though it breaks my heart.”

Cas had to steady himself against the desk.

“You unwell?” Sam asked, leaning over to examine Cas’s face. It was likely blanched and bloodless, as drained as Cas felt. He shook off Sam’s worry, however. Dean was staring at him over his shoulder, his face worn and tender. 

“That’s the saddest thing I ever heard,” Cain said softly. “At least I had time with Colette.”

“Sure,” Dean agreed. “At least you know she’d love you still.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cain asked suspiciously.

“I just mean, you ain’t so different from me,” Dean shrugged. “Your wife didn’t love an outlaw, did she. You think she’s looking down from heaven thinkin’ _there’s the man I love, just like I left him_? Nope, she’s thinkin’ how changed you are now. How you ain’t the man she married anymore.”

“That ain’t true,” Cain disagreed, but his words lacked conviction.

“You got another chance, though,” Dean continued. “Tell us where Lucifer is holed up and the sheriff’ll be lenient with you. You won’t hang a criminal. If you redeem your soul, you can join your wife in the eternal afterlife instead of burnin’ in hell.”

Cain seemed to give it serious thought. On the other side of the room, Sam leaned forward in curiosity, but Cas’s emotions were on fire. He hardly heard the man speak what should have been the most important breakthrough of his law career.

“Farm,” Cain spat out. “Man named Giles. That’s all I’ll give you.”

* * *

Dean blinked his eyes a few times as he stepped into the saloon; he’d been riding all over the county in search of a man named Giles, to no avail. His eyes burned from hours of sun and dust, and the darkness of the saloon took a few moments to brighten. Cas was in the back of the saloon, at a table with Bobby, who they’d sent a messenger to fetch after Cain had broken. Sam was back in the jailhouse, going through papers and keeping an eye on Cain. Dean didn’t really want to see him after his announcement that morning, so that was fine with him.

Meg was gratefully nowhere to be seen, and Cas and Bobby were being waited on by the pretty redhead Dean still considered new, even though she’d been there since the Fall. 

“Can I get you a beer, deputy?” she asked pleasantly as he took a chair.

“Whiskey,” he coughed. 

“Bad day all around?” she asked pointedly. Dean looked around the table and saw that Cas and Bobby were also both drinking whiskey already. 

“Long day,” Dean groaned. 

“I’ll get that whiskey for you,” she smiled and was off.

“Any luck?” Dean asked when they were alone.

“Marv sold a man named Tony Giles a shipment of lumber last Fall,” Cas said. “He came and picked it up, so he didn’t leave an address.”

“Well, he can’t be too far if he picked up a load of lumber,” Dean offered. 

“That’s what I thought,” Cas sighed. “But Bobby’s been in with Josiah all day looking over land records and he hasn’t found anything within fifty miles.”

Bobby grunted a grumpy agreement and took a long drought from his own whiskey.

“Well, I thought I got through to Cain, but maybe it was a lie.” Dean brought his drink up to his mouth, but Cas was staring at him, so he paused, drink at the ready. Cas’s eyes were narrowed and suspicious, fixed on Dean’s face. “You unwell?” Dean asked, finally dropping his drink to the table.

“Was it a lie?”

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean breathed. “I don’t think anybody was lyin’ in that jailhouse.”

“Good,” Cas said, his eyes sparkling with something that quickened Dean’s heartbeat. He leaned back, relaxing again, and it was like nothing had happened. “Walt and Roy are in for the posse. I talked to Benny, but he’d rather ride out with us than setup the camp.”

“He’s a good man,” Dean remarked, trying to feign the same nonchalance Cas was exuding. “But if this farm is as far out as we think it is, we’re going to need someone to make camp.”

“I’d help make camp,” a voice behind him said. He whipped his head around to see the redheaded saloon girl holding her hands out plaintively. “All the girls in the brothel, would, too. You fellas can’t get all the adventure.”

“Yes, this saloon is full of adventuresses,” Bobby joked.

“I’m a respectable woman,” the redhead said coolly. “I serve men drinks, not myself.”

“No offense meant, ma’am,” Bobby said sheepishly.

“Anyway, you need someone who can cook. I can’t, but Ellen can. She cooks meals for all of us. There’s a lot of things, I can do, though. I’m a good shot with a gun; got my own rifle, too. Can’t be too careful on these roads.”

“Sure, Charlie,” Cas said, leaning back in his chair.

“Just like that?” she asked, unsure and surprised. “No _the trail is no place for a woman, we’re riding into dangerous territory, you just settle down and find yourself a husband bullshit_?”

“If you’d like,” Cas said gently.

“No, no, I wouldn’t like. I’ll talk to Jo and Donna and Meg.”

“Not Meg,” Cas barked. “Meg’s not coming.”

The redhead—Charlie?—gave Cas the most severe look Dean had ever seen on a woman’s face. “You going to tell her that?”

“I’ll handle Meg,” Cas promised, his eyes drifting over to Dean. He could see an apology in those soulful blue eyes. “It’s the outlaws that I’m concerned about.”

“You’ve clearly not been living with Meg,” Charlie groaned.

The table was instantly struck with an uneasy silence. Meg was, after all, carrying Cas’s illegitimate child, and he had made no promises to marry her. It was only the lack of respectable women in town that kept it from being a scandal for the ages. 

“I’m not comfortable with the womenfolk traveling alone,” Bobby said once Charlie had stepped away to return to work.

“I’d trust Jo and Ellen to any task set before them,” Dean argued. “Donna, too.”

Bobby harrumphed grumpily; Dean knew he was being just as protective of Ellen as Cas was being of Meg. Dean hoped, knowing Bobby was sweet on Ellen, that it was for entirely different reasons. 

“Why don’t you accompany the women to the camp?” Cas suggested. “Benny’ll lend you his chuck wagon. We could be out there for days, who knows?”

With all the plans made, the three men finished their drinks and went to continue their investigation. Dean and Cas headed towards the jailhouse to see if Sam had made any headway, but, from across the street, they could see someone else heading for the jailhouse.

Gordon Walker.

* * *

“Walker, you son of a bitch,” Dean growled and advanced. Cas held him back with an outstretched arm across his chest.

“Dean, he warned us about Lucifer months before we knew anything else. Give him a chance.”

Dean relaxed against him, but Cas was loath to move his arm. Dean’s chest was warm, solid; Cas imagined he could feel the steady beat of Dean’s heart underneath the layers of cloth between them. He thought he could even feel as it sped up, but whether that was from anger at confronting his old attacker or if he, too, were feeling the effects of the sudden closeness.

Cas dropped his arm, realizing that, if he weren’t distracted by Dean, his hand would have gone to his sidearm instead of his deputy. “I thought I told you to make yourself scarce,” he growled.

“Heard you had one of the Knights of Hell,” he drawled. “I want to talk to him.”

“No.” Cas pushed past him towards the jailhouse.

“They kidnapped my sister,” Walker implored.

“Your sister’s probably dead,” Cas warned, turning around to face the man again.

“You got a sister?”

Memories of Anna flooded through Cas’s thoughts, unbidden and unwanted. Somewhere in Connecticut, his sister was living out her life with no word from Cas. At one point, she’d been his fond companion and dear friend, an understanding ear in a family who rarely paid him much mind. Even today, with a decade of distance between them, he would not have hesitated to jump to her aid no matter the circumstances.

“We’re putting together a posse, Walker,” Cas finally said. “If you’re in, you’re welcome to look for any sign of your sister.”

“I’m in.”

That seemed to satisfy the man, as he turned around and headed for another part of town, probably the saloon.

“Are you mad?” Dean asked when they were alone.

“You don’t think a man deserves a second chance?”

Dean harrumphed. “You’re not the one who took a knife to the side.”

“So you think attacking a man with a knife in protection of someone you love is an unforgiveable offense?” Cas asked pointedly.

“Cas,” Dean whispered. The moment became intimate, as if they were the only people in the world.

“Don’t. I have no regrets, Dean. At least, not about that day.”

* * *

_**Petersburg, Virginia, January 1865** _

_Dean’s hands slipped under Cas’s shirt; his palms, marred with callouses and gunpowder burns, were even rougher than the woolen garment. They might as well have been gloved in the finest silk for how they felt skimming over his stomach. Cas let out a breathy moan as they slipped to unbutton his trousers._

_“Shh,” Dean scolded gently and moved to kiss Cas’s neck. “Tent walls are thin.”_

_Cas nodded, keeping his lips sealed except when Dean leaned up to kiss them. Dean’s hand moved beneath Cas’s drawers to take him in hand, stroking his cock firmly. It took every ounce of self-restraint for Cas not to make a sound. He nearly bit through his lip, and his eyes were scrunched closed as if he were in pain instead of pure pleasure. Dean kept his rhythm up, kissing every inch of skin he could reach. Cas was reaching his peak quickly, but there was no guarantee of privacy to delay things the way they’d like. He dreamed, sometimes, alone in his cot, while Ishim—now a major, but still his roommate—snored peacefully, of the things he could do to Dean if they had the chance. It was with those thoughts that he tipped over the edge and spilled into Dean’s awaiting hand._

_“What in the hell?” a voice said. Cas opened his eyes to see Ishim had come back to the tent—they were caught._

_“This isn’t what it looks like,” Dean stammered, though his hand was still filthy with Cas’s spunk. Cas buttoned up his own trousers, tucking his cock away as best he could while still seated._

_Ishim was oddly calm. “Sergeant, please go back to your tent.”_

_Dean glanced in panic and confusion at Cas, refusing to stand and leave while Cas might be in danger. Cas reassured him with a gentle nod of his head but could not risk any further sign of affection._

_“I’ll see you around, Captain,” Dean said casually, as if he weren’t wiping his hand clean on Cas’s rough blanket._

_He left, giving Ishim a mocking salute as he passed him._

_“Are you a mad man?” Ishim asked once they were alone._

_“Yes, I suppose I am,” Cas said just as calmly._

_“Castiel, this is beneath you,” Ishim intoned. “If you’re so desperate for a warm body, couldn’t you have picked anyone else? There are hundreds of young men as pretty as a lady if you dressed them up right.”_

_That was…not the reaction Cas had expected. He stared in confusion at Ishim for a good moment without saying a word. He would have thought a condemnation of the act was coming, for certain, but this was a surprise. “You don’t think Winchester is pretty enough?” he asked._

_“Don’t be obtuse, Castiel. I’m only saying that you are spoiled for options. We’re all lonely men who haven’t seen a woman in years, but Winchester? He’s hardly better than the rebels we’re fighting.”_

_Cas’s hand clenched into a fist. “Dean is a good man.”_

_“I’m sure he is, in his simple, backcountry way,” Ishim sneered._

_“He was born in Boston, Ishim, to an old New England family—abolitionists who moved to Kansas to ensure it became a free state. They knew John Brown, for God’s sake.”_

_Ishim was still infuriatingly calm. It took every ounce of self-control for Cas not to punch him in his smug face._

_“If you took a prince and gave him country manners, no one would recognize him as a prince, Castiel.” He advanced on Castiel, whispering as if he was the one with a dangerous secret. “Dean Winchester is uneducated, lazy, dishonest, and they say he has a rebel brother.”_

_Cas sighed. “Dean’s only brother is at home with their widowed mother, taking care of the family farm. I hear he’s a bright young man with a good future ahead of him. You should know better than to believe camp gossip—especially old camp gossip.”_

_Ishim began to pace. “I’m surprised that you’d defend a man who’d seduced you for his own advancement.”_

_“Dean didn’t…” Cas didn’t finish the sentence. Whatever he’d meant to say—Dean didn’t seduce him, Dean wouldn’t use him like that, Dean had no interest in advancement—wouldn’t change Ishim’s mind. A man who would suggest Cas was a means to advancement in the Union Army could not be reasoned with. Time and time again, Cas had watched other men rise through the ranks; Ishim had been made a Major and Cas was still a Captain. He simply wasn’t ambitious. That—and a certain disregard for the rules and hierarchy—had doomed Cas to a lackluster career. Dean even teased him about it sometimes, poking fun at how Cas’s bravery on the battlefield could not make up for his tendency towards insubordination. Dean was the good little soldier; Cas was the spanner in the works._

_“He’s corrupting you; the best I can do for the Army—for you—is to get rid of him.”_

_He dashed for the flap of the tent, and Cas moved to block his way. “Leave Dean alone,” he commanded._

_“This is for the best,” Ishim said, trying to push his way past. “I’ll leave you out of it, and Winchester will be dishonorably discharged and out of your life for good.”_

_“I don’t want that,” Cas pled, admitting his deepest flaw._

_“You’re confused, weak,” Ishim said. “I’ll cure you.”_

_Cas reached out to the desk near the door, desperate to find something to stop Ishim from leaving. His hand enclosed around the handle of his knife; he’d been sharpening it when Dean had come by and distracted him. He brandished it without thinking, lashing out at his superior officer in desperation. He didn’t wish to hurt him; he was simply consumed by the single thought to protect Dean._

_His knife made contact with flesh, however, slicing through Ishim’s neck and leaving a bloody trail in its wake. Ishim howled in pain and clutched at his wounded neck._

_“I…” Cas stammered, stepping back into the canvas of the tent. The weight of what he’d done came crashing down on him. He was a sinner, a fallen angel; something inside him had broken._

_Ishim remained calm even as his hand kept the blood at bay. “It’s fine,” he said and Castiel let out a relieved breath that he could still speak. “I’ll simply tell them Winchester did this. It’ll do nothing but hasten his departure.”_

_“No. I’ll confess.”_

_“Winchester will go down with you,” Ishim threatened._

_“Not to that,” Cas clarified. “To cutting you. And if you dare speak one word of Dean Winchester, I’ll confess that you are my lover, not him.”_

_The thought was anathema to him, but it did its job and Ishim said no more. He went to see the surgeon, while Castiel made the long walk to the commander’s tent. He didn’t stop to see Dean, to tell him of what had occurred. He would face the consequences of his actions, but Dean would remain untouched._

* * *

**Perdition, Kansas, April 1872**

Dean slipped Cain’s supper through the bars. Cas had made a pot of beans and soda biscuits, and they had eaten their supper in the room they now shared. The events of the day still weighed heavily as they prepared for bed. Dean had finished building his bed the previous week, ordering a goosefeather mattress and riding out to Newton to get it himself. The bed was big enough for two, but Cas slept on the cot Sam had abandoned for his own marriage bed. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t touched themselves at the same time like they had the night of Sam’s wedding. The last time they’d done it, just a few days before, they’d even left the lamp on. 

Dean let out a chuckle as he climbed into his bed and pulled the quilt up. Cas hadn’t undressed yet, but stood in the center of the room, watching him. 

“You ain’t goin’ to watch me sleep, are you?” Dean asked.

“Of course not,” Cas said, but he didn’t move. “Dean, I—I heard what you said to Cain.”

“It ain’t news,” Dean replied testily, sitting up.

“No, it ain’t,” Cas agreed with a sigh. He still didn’t move as if glued to the spot on the floor. His eyes were searching, as if they could look through Dean into the very matter of his existence. “Dean, maybe things have changed.”

“Sure they have,” Dean admitted. “You’re goin’ to be a pa.”

Cas let out another long sigh, but his expression was soft and amused in the lamplight, as if Dean was a precocious child who’d just discovered his toes.

“Not that,” he said softly. “Dean, I love you, too.”

The air went out of the room, but Dean knew better than to be optimistic. “This again?,” he growled. “I know, Cas, it ain’t romantic.”

“I think it might be, after all,” Cas said simply, his eyes imploring.

Dean nearly fell out of bed. “Cas, you know what you’re sayin’?”

“I spent the last few years runnin’ away from my past,” Cas began. He sat down on the bed next to Dean, and it somehow felt like both the largest bed in the world and smaller than the cot that Cas had been sleeping in. “I never settled down, ‘cause I knew, the moment I did, I’d remember how lonely I was. I thought it was the war that made things between us the way they were, but maybe it’s just me.”

Dean exhaled shakily. “We can’t help the way we are, Cas. It ain’t unnatural if it’s how God made us.”

Cas nodded, as if he finally understood what Dean had known for years. “If you’ll have me,” he said, his arm outstretched in placation. “I’m yours.”

“You’ve always been mine,” Dean smiled. 

“May I kiss you?” Cas leaned forward, his eyes bright blue in the lamplight and wide with hope.

Dean tugged him by the waistcoat towards him; their lips met for the first time in years. It wasn’t anything like gunfire; it wasn’t canons firing and shells exploding. It was warm and soft, slow and easy, like a summer’s day on the porch with a glass of lemonade. Cas pulled away softly, the ghost of his lips still on Dean’s.

“So, how was it?” Dean asked teasingly.

“I don’t know. I may have to try again.” He wrapped his arms around Dean and captured his mouth a second time, pressing forward and slipping his tongue between Dean’s parted lips. Dean sucked on it lightly, then ran his own tongue around it lazily. Cas groaned into Dean’s mouth, low and desperate. Dean felt it all the way down to his cock, which twitched in interest. Dean let Cas push him back down on the bed, rolling on top of him.

Cas was still dressed and his Marshal’s badge pressed uncomfortably against Dean’s skin, protected only by a thin cotton nightshirt. Dean would have to do something about that. He moved his hands to Cas’s buttons, not caring when one snapped off in his hurried fingers. He pushed the waistcoat off Cas’s shoulders, but Cas’s arms were trapped beneath Dean’s body. Dean gave up on the waistcoat and started unbuttoning the yoke of Cas’s shirt, but still Cas had no intention of moving so that Dean could get him naked. Dean made do by pulling Cas’s shirt out of his trousers and sticking his hand underneath, to caress the smooth flesh.

“Cas,” Dean gasped, as Cas started kissing his jaw. “I want to feel your skin.”

Cas pulled away. His mouth was sinful, full and wet from kissing. He reached down and tugged his shirt over his head. His waistcoat got stuck, but he escaped it with little embarrassment. He was beautiful. It wasn’t as if Dean hadn’t seen him half-dressed before. There had been the time with Meg, of course, and cooling down on a hot summer’s day by stripping down and swimming in the creek. But it was different when Dean knew Cas was his. Even his scars were beautiful, puckered pink skin stretched over thick muscles.

“I love you,” Cas whispered, kissing behind Dean’s ear. “Only you.” He kissed where Dean’s neck met his shoulder, pushing Dean’s nightshirt aside to reach the skin there. “Forever.” He moved up to kiss the bolt of Dean’s jaw, then cradled his face in one of his long-fingered hands.

Dean pulled away to remove his nightshirt, leaving him naked and exposed, his hard cock wet against his stomach. Cas leaned forward again and closed his lips over the head of it. Dean’s head fell back in pleasure, and Cas pulled off him.

“I got a mouth, too,” he smirked. 

“Jesus, Cas, do you ever.”

Cas flicked his tongue over the tip, lapping up the bead of liquid that spurted out. His hand loosely circled Dean’s cock, then grazed over his balls and eased lower. His finger slipped inside Dean, a rough intrusion.

“Cas,” Dean gasped. “I ain’t a girl. You need something to ease the way.”

“Oh, of course. Lard?”

“We eat that,” Dean frowned. “I’ve been using hair dressing oil when I’ve done it to myself.”

“O.K.,” Cas chuckled, placing a soft kiss on Dean’s temple. “Hair oil it is.”

Dean retrieved the bottle from under his bed. It was half empty, but not from using it on his hair. Cas took the bottle and poured some on his hand, then he moved his hand back to play at Dean’s hole. The oil made things smoother, and Dean moaned in encouragement.

“That feel good?” Cas asked, less as romantic talk, and more out of curiosity.

“Sure. Feels real good. ‘Specially when you do it.”

Dean had only ever used one of his fingers, so the stretch burned as Cas added another, but he eased his fingers in and out in gentle thrusts. “So tight, Dean,” he mumbled, twisting his fingers inside Dean. He seemed to forget he was preparing Dean, in favor of exploration. Dean was reduced to a whimpering mess until Cas suddenly removed his fingers.

Dean groaned at the loss, but he was rewarded with the sight of Cas unbuttoning his trousers and dropping them to the floor. He removed his drawers, too, then positioned himself back over Dean, kissing him on the mouth with abandon. 

“I love you,” Cas breathed, planting his mouth onto Dean’s neck and sucking.

He rolled off Dean and positioned himself behind him, like spoons in a drawer. Dean could feel Cas’s cock pressing against him, then breaching his hole. Cas’s cock was much wider than his fingers, and it stretched Dean again, but he didn’t care about any discomfort. Cas slid inside, slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully sheathed inside Dean. It was an unusual feeling, but Cas kept kissing his shoulders and neck. As Cas started moving, his cock made contact with something deep inside Dean, that radiated with pleasure at every thrust. 

Dean wrapped his hand around his own cock, stroking it in time with Cas’s thrusts. It was pleasure from both sides, and Dean was coming apart quickly. Dean spilled over his own hand, brilliant and breathless. Cas continued plunging inside him; it still filled Dean with pleasure, but it was a different sort. Cas was reaching his peak, then he filled Dean up.

They fell asleep entwined in the bed, not a care about what the next day would bring.

* * *

Cas was in the middle of the best dream of his life. He was dreaming about Dean, of course, but not how he usually did. He often dreamt of them tangled on one of their cots or hiding behind trees or a wagon in the aftermath of a battle, but he was certain they were in a bed, a soft feather mattress beneath them. Even as reality crept into the edges and the dream didn’t fade, Cas couldn’t believe he wasn’t still asleep. He was aroused, his cock surrounded by wet heat as Dean’s mouth worked him over. He never wanted to leave the dream, but wakefulness was pulling at him just as surely as his orgasm.

A low, loud moan roused him fully. He blinked into awareness and realized it had been his own sounds of pleasure he’d heard. Dean was seated between his legs, his mouth fully occupied around Cas’s cock. He pulled off slowly, his tongue winding lazily around the head.

“Good morning,” he said in a husky voice. “Thanks for joining me.”

“I thought it was a dream.”

Dean let out a gentle huff of laughter. “I thought so, too—until I realized the dead weight on my arm was you.”

Cas shrugged; Dean grinned wolfishly and kissed the tip of Cas’s cock.

“Any regrets?” Cas asked with a moan.

“Six years of them, Cas,” Dean breathed. He leaned his cheek against Cas’s thigh; it was intimate rather than sensual.

“I should have come to you as soon as I could,” Cas admitted with a sigh. “I’m sorry I let my fear keep me away. I just wanted to prove what sort of man I was.”

He’d been a coward; he could finally admit that. All those years, he thought if he was the best shot, the fastest draw, the most dangerous man in the West, that he’d be able to see himself as worthy. He’d hated himself—for loving Dean, yes, but also for abandoning his commission because of it. 

“The best sort of man, Cas,” Dean whispered, climbing up the bed to kiss Cas on the lips. It was soft, with only the barest promise of the passion of the previous night. Cas leaned into it, deepening the kiss into something hotter. Dean’s tongue tasted of Cas, but that only made him want more. 

“I love you,” Cas kissed into every inch of Dean’s skin.

They rolled against each other, just as they had countless times before, until Dean cried out. Cas held him through it, until he, too, spilled between their bodies.

Their breathing had yet to slow before a pounding on the door brought them out of their afterglow.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice cried. “Cas! Wake up!”

“Damn it,” Cas whispered, searching for his trousers on the floor.

He got them pulled on, just as Dean opened the door to his brother.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean squawked. “What’s the news?”

Sam was breathless and ruddy. “We found the farm. It’s three days’ ride southwest of Perdition. Amelia and Ellen are already preparing for camp.”

Dean turned around to look at Cas, his face dark. They weren’t lovers anymore, caught up in the passion of reuniting; they were Marshal and deputy, men who had promised to uphold the law under all circumstances.

* * *

They took all the day to prepare. They cleaned out Marv’s ammunition stores and borrowed from any man unable to join the posse but still interested in helping; Amelia’s cowhands were all willing to lend a weapon. Three of them wanted to join the posse, as well, to get retribution for their fallen friends. 

“I don’t want you to go,” Amelia whispered, leaning into Sam in a way that was not at all appropriate for town.

“It’s three days’ ride, and you’ll be just behind in the camp convoy,” Sam reassured her. “We’ll see each other every night.”

“But you won’t stay in camp,” she lamented. “You’ll ride out with the Marshal and face down dangerous outlaws.”

“For the last time.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “Then it’s a life of peace and freedom by your side. This is something I have to do; whether I was a deputy or a rancher, this is my fight.”

Amelia sighed but reached her arms around him. Behind her, Benny and Ellen were loading his chuck wagon with beans and salt pork. He was joining the posse, as Cas had deputized all seven men who were riding out with them—even Walker—but Bobby was driving his chuck wagon to the campsites with the women. 

In front of the saloon, however, Meg was screaming her head off.

“So you expect me to stay three days away while you’re getting’ your damn head blown off?”

“Yes,” Cas answered. Dean was at his side, as he’d been all day, nodding furiously.

“You think the baby and I are safer in town? What if the baby comes?—there’s not another woman here to help.”

“Donna’s stayin’ in town, too,” Dean said crossly. “Rufus can’t run the saloon on his own, and Ellen’s afraid the men will overrun it if he opens it alone.”

“Donna couldn’t help a sow deliver,” Meg scoffed.

“You’re not due yet,” Cas replied. “Unless you’re lyin’ about me bein’ the father.”

Meg clutched her belly self-consciously, but the fire in her manner didn’t change. “Damn you, Milton!”

Next to Sam, Amelia was also watching the scene. “Why hasn’t he married her? She’d obviously have him.”

“Don’t know,” Sam shrugged. Meg flounced into the saloon, leaving Dean and Cas alone on the porch. Sam could see Dean lean imperceptibly closer to the Marshal, not unlike how he and Amelia were standing. It was a little thing, but Sam had noticed enough little things over the last year to understand exactly why Cas wasn’t going to marry Meg. It was the same reason that Dean wouldn’t court any woman their ma would push him towards, no matter how good her peach pie was.

* * *

Meg watched the men ride off into the unknown from the porch of the saloon. Inside her, the baby stirred, kicking out at her belly. 

“I know, kid. Your pa is a fool.”

There was another kick, which she took as agreement. The baby was pretty active lately, which only added to her discomfort. Her ankles were swollen, she needed to head to the outhouse every twenty minutes, and her back was aching something awful. 

“We’re heading out,” Bobby called. Charlie and Jo scrambled out of the door behind her, their arms full of whatever they thought they’d need for the trip. They looked like they were skipping off into an adventure, but Meg knew better. The men were going to be slaughtered, and the women were going to wait for them for naught. 

“You’re goin’ to be an orphan, kid,” she said to her stomach. The baby kicked again, but there was nothing he could do for his father now. Meg, on the other hand, could still go. Cas was long gone, and he wouldn’t know until it was too late.

While Bobby was busy helping the women into his wagon, Meg snuck into the covered back of the chuck wagon. She buried herself under flour sacks and stayed as still as death itself. She’d deal with Cas’s ire when it came to it.

* * *

It had been a long three days. Every man was saddle sore and cranky, so Cas had decided to leave for the farm first thing on the fourth morning. They’d made their last camp about an hour away and would leave the women there while they tried to take the outlaws out. One of the few benefits of their otherwise uncomfortable living situation was that Dean and Cas were forced to share a tent, so Dean got to spend his nights entwined with his lover.

“Am I leading my men into slaughter?” Cas asked, breathing into Dean’s neck.

“Nah,” Dean dismissed. He kissed Cas’s forehead tenderly. “We took them before, we’ll take them again. We’ve been through worse.”

“Perhaps.” Cas kissed down the side of his face until he reached Dean’s mouth. He nibbled at Dean’s bottom lip teasingly before kissing him deeply.

Dean pulled away, though every part of him wished to push forward instead. “It’s almost daylight,” he sighed. “We’ll have to head out soon, and the rest of the camp is already stirring.”

A pout formed on Cas’s handsome face, and Dean leaned forward to kiss it off him. Outside they could hear women’s voices, probably starting breakfast, Meg among them. Cas’s pout deepened. It’d been a shock and disappointment for him when she’d been with the camp the first night. Dean understood; he wouldn’t have let Cas go off into danger without being there himself. Love made you do stupid things.

After a hearty breakfast, the posse set out for the Giles’ Farm. They knew nothing about the layout of the farm, so Dean rode ahead as a scout. The farmhouse faced due east, but there was a door at the back that led to the outbuildings, of which there was a large wooden barn, and several smaller buildings, probably an outhouse, chicken coop, maybe a smokehouse, since they were so far out on the frontier. There were no animals around, and Dean wondered if Lucifer had slaughtered them as ruthlessly as he must have the human inhabitants. There was no life around the farm and Dean couldn’t see any of Lucifer’s men, but a trail of smoke coming from the chimney meant that someone was home. They could use the barn as cover, just as they had at the Bliss Farm at Gettysburg, where Dean and Cas had fought Confederate sharpshooters.

When Dean returned to the rest of the posse, he told them what he’d learned. Cas agreed that they’d use the barn as cover to take the house. Half of the posse would head to the barn, led by Cas, while rest would lay in wait.

“Dean, Sam, Walker, and Benny, you’re with me,” Cas ordered, looking every bit the Army Captain he once was.

“Walker?” Dean questioned in a whisper.

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas scolded. “He’s the only man in the posse who had his own pistol. We’ll let the riflemen provide cover.”

Dean sighed, but followed Cas around the backside of the barn. Both sets of doors were open, so they could sneak inside without being seen from the house. Their guns were drawn, as they’d need to secure the barn before they could do anything else. Dean wasn’t especially concerned, however, as he’d not seen nor heard anyone near the barn during his scouting mission.

It was a huge building, and Cas led the way through the doors. Dean had just stepped through them, however, when Cas fired off two shots. He tried to shove Dean back, but Dean pushed through.

One of the outlaws—the one with only one arm who Cas had shot in Cheyenne—was standing in the barn. He didn’t have a gun, but he had a knife in his one hand and it was pointed at the throat of a young Negro woman.

“Cordelia,” Walker cried out. Dean grabbed him to keep him from rushing at them and making things worse.

* * *

There was no chance to retreat and replan their attack. Ramiel was using the young woman as a human shield, and any gun fired would put her in jeopardy. Fortunately, the threat of all their guns on him kept him from alerting those in the house of their presence. If it was between this one young woman and the entirety of their posse, then the choice was, unfortunately, simple. Or, at least, it was best for Ramiel to think so.

“It’s O.K., Cordelia,” Walker reassured the young woman, obviously his sister. “I’m here.”

“Don’t move,” Ramiel ordered, moving his blade closer to Cordelia’s neck. Dean had to work harder to restrain Walker, lest he make a rash mistake that would cost them everything.

Cas took in the situation. There were five of them and only one of him, so they had numbers on their side. Walker was a wildcard, and Cas briefly cursed his foolishness at bringing him along. To be honest, he’d assumed Walker’s sister was long dead and not being used for God knows what by her captors. Dean had control of the other man for now, but he could go off like a cannon at a moment’s notice, so there was no time to spare. Someone needed to watch the other door, and with a nod of Cas’s head, Sam sprang into action, taking Benny with him and taking position by the far door.

Above Ramiel’s head was a hay loft. It was brighter than the barn, which was only illuminated by a lantern behind the outlaw, so there was likely a door leading to the outside. If Cas could get up there, he’d have the advantage over Ramiel. 

“Let go of my sister, you bastard,” Walker cried out, struggling against Dean’s arms. 

“She’s nobody’s sister,” Ramiel said casually. “She’s nothing.”

“Gordon,” she cried out, speaking for the first time. She sounded broken and terrified, and who knew what she’d been through.

Cas used the distraction to sneak out the door; even Dean didn’t notice he’d left. He couldn’t be seen from the house, and there was no sight of Lucifer or another of his gang, so he moved swiftly rather than carefully. It was little effort to scale the outside of the barn, as there were footholds and handholds and he was still a fit young man. Inside, he could still hear Walker and Ramiel, but he figured that, by now, Dean had realized his absence. Hopefully, he would realize what Cas was doing and help in the distraction.

There were still no doors on the loft opening. Cas could see on the ground below the wood half formed, as if the men had been stopped in the midst of building them. There was less hay than downstairs, and Cas wondered if the barn had ever been used by its true owners. He could hear the fight better from inside, and Dean had gotten involved, hurling abuse that Ramiel no doubt deserved. Cas neared the edge of the loft; there was no ladder, but his plan required him to jump anyway, so that was of little consequence. His deputies could likely see him, but their eyes never flickered upwards once. He said a little prayer to a long forgotten God, and leaped off the edge.

He tumbled directly onto Ramiel, knocking him over and dislodging the knife. The other men jumped into action and grabbed Walker’s sister, pulling her to safety. Cas scrambled for the fallen knife even as Ramiel was scrambling for purchase on the dirt floor. Cas found the knife, but Ramiel found a pitchfork. 

Ramiel advanced, the sharp points of the pitchfork sparkling in the lantern light. Cas lunged at him and they tussled for the pitchfork. There was the sound of breaking glass as the lantern fell to the ground, flames erupting around them.

Cas was now the one in jeopardy, his gun lodged beneath his twisted body and the pitchfork uncomfortably jabbed into his side.

“Cas!” Dean cried out, his voice stricken. 

Cas kicked out with his legs, hoping to knock Ramiel off his feet, but only succeeded in forcing the pitchfork into his flesh further. He called out in pain to his deputies, but Dean seemed glued to the spot, his gun useless at his side. Smoke was beginning to fill the area as the hay scattered about easily caught fire.

Suddenly, the crack of a gun sounded through the commotion, and Ramiel fell, the pitchfork dropping from his hands uselessly.

Cas looked through the smoke to see Walker, his gun raised and his sister at his side.

“That’s for my sister,” he growled. Cas was uncertain whether that was meant for him or the outlaw, but it was no matter. There was little time for debate, as the wooden structure of the barn had started to catch fire.

“We’ve got company,” Sam warned from his spot in the doorway. The sound of riflefire could be heard over the licking flames. Cas glanced to the door they’d come in, but the fire had already spread, cutting off their escape.

“Gordon, Benny, get Miss Walker to the horses. We’ll provide cover fire.” He drew his gun and headed to the doorway.

Outlaws were shooting from the windows and the back porch. There was nowhere to hide except for the now-billowing smoke, but Cas and his deputies faced their enemies with backs straight and heads held high. Behind them, the other men were making a successful retreat, so Cas gave the signal to Dean to take his brother and get behind the barn. 

Just then, however, Lucifer himself stepped onto the porch, a rifle in hand and Ruby clinging to his side. The rest of his gang held their fire.

“Welcome to my new home,” he said with a sneer. “I don’t think you’ve been very good guests, though. Look what you’ve done to my barn.”

“We’ll burn everything down if that’s what it takes,” Sam shouted.

“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” Lucifer drawled. “I’ve given you enough chances, I think.”

He raised his rifle and shot. Sam fell to the ground beside him, crying out in pain. On the porch, Ruby’s screams echoed his cries eerily.

“Sam!” Dean shouted, adding his voice to the fray.

Flames had overtaken the barn, and the thickening smoke made it impossible to see whether Sam was alive or dead. Cas and Dean both leaped towards him and pulled the larger man to safety where the rest of the men had assembled near the horses.

Sam’s wound was bad, but he was still alive. The shot shattered the bone just above the knee. 

“You’re fine, Sammy,” Dean muttered, his hand in his brother’s hair. “This ain’t nothin’, O.K?”

“Sure, Dean,” Sam breathed. The pain was going to knock him out sooner rather than later.

Benny pulled Cas aside, his face dark. “You served in the war. You know what has to be done, don’t you?”

Cas looked over at his deputy, who just that morning was looking forward to a long, happy life with his new bride. Dean’s beloved brother, who had become Cas’s dear friend—his only chance to live was to lose his leg.

“Can you do it?”


	10. Speak of the Devil

**Perdition, Kansas, April 1872**

Even the hour’s ride to the campsite was a danger to Sam’s life, but Benny’s bag was in the wagon, and there was nothing they could do where they were while Lucifer still held the farm. Dean held his brother’s hand while Cas put together a travois, since Sam couldn’t ride a horse in his condition. Benny tied a tourniquet high on Sam’s thigh, hoping to staunch the bleeding.

“I’ve seen worse,” Dean said to his brother as Sam drifted in and out of consciousness, which was probably true. He’d seen bodies ripped apart by shells, limbs torn off, men who no longer looked like men, but those unfortunate souls hadn’t been his brother. Whether they made it or not wasn’t Dean’s concern. Some had been friends, sure, but when you’re one of a hundred thousand men, you expect casualties. Perhaps it was dumb to expect they’d come out of this intact.

“Tell Amelia I love her,” Sam gasped.

“You’ll tell her yourself. She’s just a short ride away,” Dean replied, squeezing Sam’s hand harder.

“Let’s get him on it,” Cas announced, having finished the travois. He crouched close to Sam. “Sam, we’re going to load you onto the travois now.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, though he looked like he was too out of it to understand.

Cas rubbed a hand along Dean’s back; Dean wanted to lean into it and find comfort in Cas’s familiar scent, tinged as it was with smoke. 

Soon, all the men were crouched around Sam. Dean on his good leg, Benny on the bad leg, and Cas, Walt, and Roy around the torso. Sam screamed in agony as they picked him up, and put him on the travois, cushioned by the saddle blanket from Walt’s horse. As the best horseman of the group, he’d ride Sam’s horse and pull the travois back to camp. Cas would lead the group, with Walker and his sister just behind where it was safer, while Dean and Benny would ride in the rear to monitor Sam’s condition, and the remaining men would flank them, rifles at the ready in case Lucifer or his gang decided to pursue. 

It was slow going, Benny stopping the convoy to check on Sam every so often. He was drifting in and out of it, but he was still breathing, and that was all that mattered. Finally, they pulled up to the camp. Bobby and Ellen had erected a few tents and Benny’s chuck wagon was parked nearby. Dean could see Bobby stand as they rode up—could see the moment he realized they had a riderless horse. He roused the women and a crowd surged forward to meet them.

“What happened?” Amelia asked, rushing to the travois.

Dean dismounted his horse just in time to see Amelia recoil at the extent of her husband’s injury. She dropped to the ground beside him.

“Amelia,” Sam croaked weakly. 

“I’m here, sweetheart,” she said, cupping his face in her hand. She turned to Dean. “What the hell happened?”

“Lucifer got ‘im,” Dean said by way of explanation.

Amelia pulled him away, out of Sam’s earshot. “I don’t care what you have to do, just save my husband.”

Dean nodded curtly, then returned to help Benny move Sam to the back of Bobby’s wagon. Sam howled in pain as they moved him, but Dean could only see that as a good sign. He wasn’t dead yet, and that meant they could save him.

Dean and Cas stepped down from the wagon and straight into—

“Meg,” Cas growled. “You should have stayed in town. You all should have stayed in town.” He clutched at his hair in pain and frustration. Both Dean and Meg reached out a hand to rub at his arm in comfort.

Meg pulled her hand back and clutched at her full belly self-consciously. “What happened to the other Deputy Winchester?”

“Meg,” Cas warned, leaning into Dean’s hand. “Don’t be callous.”

“Did you get Lucifer?” she asked. “At least?”

“No,” Dean answered gruffly.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Cas said, his eyes sad and haunted. “It should have been me.”

One thing that Dean was certain of was that he wouldn’t be better off if it had been Cas who was shot. He couldn’t live without Cas, either. He gripped Cas’s arm more tightly. “Cas,” he began.

“Go be with your brother,” Cas ordered.

Sam was with his wife, so Dean headed to where Benny was removing a case from the chuck wagon, its worn leather cover was marred with suspicious stains.

“What’s that?” Dean asked, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

“Surgeon’s kit,” Benny said darkly. “I got a bone saw in there.”

“Have you done it before?” The bottom fell out of Dean’s stomach. He’d seen what surgeons did on the battlefield. He knew that it saved lives, but, even under the best circumstances, it could mean…he couldn’t even say it, not about Sam.

“In the prison camp, yeah,” Benny answered, though it wasn’t reassuring. “There weren’t no one else, brother.”

“Well, Sam _is_ my brother, and I can’t lose him.”

* * *

Cas rifled through every saddle bag, taking guns and ammunition as he went. He’d return the weapons if he survived, so it wasn’t stealing. 

“Well, aren’t you loaded for bear,” a clever voice said from behind him.

“Meg, you should be resting,” Cas sighed.

“It’s my body; I know what I need. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Cas found another rifle and a box of ammunition; he added it to his collection. “Lucifer is my responsibility. I’m Marshal. I can’t let anyone else get hurt, not on my watch.”

“What about me?” Meg asked pointedly.

“You’ll be fine.” Cas laid out the weapons he had pilfered. Six rifles, not including his own, and eight revolvers. That meant he could fire more than fifty times before he had to reload. It was more weapons than he usually carried at once, but he’d manage. “You’ll have Dean. And Dean’ll have you.”

“Oh, yes, the prostitute who’s carrying your baby and your male lover will walk off into the sunset together, holding hands over your moldering corpse.” 

“Dean and I aren’t—” Cas began, but Meg held up a hand to silence him

“Save it for someone who hasn’t watched you two hold hands while fucking me.” She twitched in pain, and Cas rushed to her side. “I’m fine. Baby just kicked. What do you care anyway? You’re walking into the slaughter.”

Cas didn’t usually wear a holster, preferring his revolver more easily accessible, but he’d stolen one from someone else in the posse, and wrapped it around his hips. He patted his waistcoat; he had his knife, though he doubted he’d have opportunity to use it. He removed the pocket watch, new fob and all, and held it out for Meg.

“I’d like my son to have this,” he said, placing it in her hand.

“And if you have a daughter?”

“Give it to Dean,” Cas said. He took two of the revolvers and began to load them with cartridges.

“Ah yes, the man loses his brother and the love of his life in the same day, but he gets a watch,” Meg said cruelly. 

Cas whipped around to face her. “Dean understands honor and duty. He knows I love him, but he also knows that I can’t leave Lucifer living while I still breathe.”

“Sure he does,” Dean’s voice said from the door of the tent.

“Dean,” Cas breathed. It was going to be much more difficult to walk into certain death with Dean standing there, handsome as could be. “How’s Sam?”

“Benny’s gettin’ started. I can’t—“ He looked so young, like the corporal Cas had met a decade earlier. “You took my gun.”

“He took _all_ the guns,” Meg drawled.

“Well, I’m goin’ to need mine if we’re going to take down Lucifer, aren’t I?” Dean held a hand out for his weapon. When Cas didn’t comply, he dropped it with a sigh.

“Dean, what about Sam?” Cas asked, his heart beating through his chest.

“He has his wife, he has Benny,” Dean shrugged. “I’m your deputy, my place is at your side. Let’s give em, hell, Captain.”

Cas dropped the guns he was holding and reached out for Dean, kissing him deeply, not caring what Meg—or anyone else—saw.

“Let’s ride, my love,” Cas whispered.

* * *

Amelia ran her hand through her husband’s hair. “Sweetheart,” she whispered. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, and, even when his eyes were open, she wasn’t certain he was really with her. She couldn’t bear to look at his leg, which had once been strong and whole and was now a mangled mess.

“Amelia,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Where’s Amelia?”

“I’m here,” she said, leaning in close.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I don’t want to leave you. Not like this. Not like Don.”

“You’re not going to leave me. You’ll get through this. Benny is going to…he’s going to take your leg, then you’ll be fine.”

Sam cried out in pain. Amelia hazarded a look towards his wound, it was gushing blood anew. There was little time. “Meg,” Amelia called, trying to keep her voice steady. “We need more bandages. Tear your petticoats if you need to, and get water on the boil.”

“I’m coming, Jesus,” Meg complained, but she pulled up her skirts and started tearing off strips from the cotton petticoat underneath.

Suddenly, she stopped where she stood. 

“Meg, hurry,” Amelia pleaded, running her hand through Sam’s hair.

“I don’t think I can help,” Meg explained. “The baby’s coming.”

* * *

Lucifer twirled his rifle like a band leader with a baton. 

“What about Sam?” Ruby insisted, leaning against the kitchen table. She was supposed to be cooking Lucifer supper, but she couldn’t bear to.

“Oh, he’ll probably die,” Lucifer said in a singsong voice. “Slowly and painfully, just like a traitor should.”

Abaddon and Alistair were laughing about something on the other side of the house; Ruby hated them. She hated all of them. Lucifer most of all.

“But you loved him,” she argued. She wasn’t certain what she wanted from Lucifer; Sam’s fate was already sealed.

“He betrayed me. He abandoned me. He is nothing to me now.” He let out a deranged giggle. “He’s nothing to anyone now, I suppose, except dinner for the vultures.”

A single tear fell from her eye, and she fingered the string of pearls around her neck. It was all that remained of her old life, an inheritance from a beloved grandmother long dead.

“You care about him,” Lucifer said, his voice clever and cruel.

“No,” Ruby lied. “Sam Winchester means nothing to me.”

“You love him. You’d rather him live than me,” Lucifer continued.

“No,” Ruby lied again. “Sam was a good man. He treated me well, and he doesn’t deserve to die.”

“Yes, he does,” Lucifer growled, his voice turning dangerous.

Ruby saw him raise the rifle as if he were moving twice as slow. He pulled the trigger and fired, and Ruby had enough time for her life to flash before her eyes. She could feel the bullet enter her and feel her life leaving with only a lifetime of regrets to keep her company.

* * *

Benny had Amelia stay at Sam’s head, to keep him calm. Bobby and Ellen were on each side to maneuver him while Benny cut. Bobby had seen a lot in his lifetime, but this was the first time he was going to help cut off a man’s leg. On the battlefield, a surgeon would hack off the limb and hope it healed up right, but Benny had always done it the hard way, which would give a cleaner look to the stump and heal faster.

Benny began to cut skin flaps to sew over the stump; Sam howled in pain. His wife tried to soothe him, but he was being flayed alive, so there was not much she could do. He’d likely pass out from the pain sooner rather than later, and that would be a blessing. The sound of flesh under the saw would haunt Bobby’s nightmares for the rest of his life, but he helped shift Sam as needed so that Benny could cut all the way around.

“Sam!” Amelia shouted suddenly. “Sam, honey, can you hear me?”

* * *

Lucifer may have lost some of his men, but he still had his best lieutenants, and he still held the farm. Cas went through the battle options with Dean.

“We could shoot up the farmhouse and hope we hit them all?” Dean suggested. “We have enough ammunition.” He had two rifles slung across his back, and they’d divided up the revolvers between the two of them.

“The walls might not be as thin as the farm at Gettysburg was,” Cas pointed out. “Anyway, the Confederates were the ones shooting through the farm. We went through the window.”

“Well, if it worked then…” Dean suggested, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

They neared the farm again, and there was still no one visible outside. They’d learned the hard way not to trust in that fact, but they didn’t care who was hiding in the out buildings this time. The remains of the barn were still smoldering, but the fire hadn’t jumped to any of the other buildings. They stopped their horses far enough away so that anyone in or around the house wouldn’t see them. On foot, weighed down by their many weapons, they sprinted for the house, stopping on each side of a window that they figured went into the kitchen. 

“On the count of three,” Dean said, Cas nodding in agreement. “One, two…”

“Three,” Cas finished, leaping up and kicking in the glass of the window. He dove through the open window, not minding the broken shards. Dean followed, and they rolled onto the floor into a pile.

“Well, this is familiar,” Dean quipped.

“Dear, this isn’t the time.”

Dean kissed him on the nose quickly and rolled away from him.

They both righted themselves and stood. “Why didn’t that draw more attention?” Dean asked, as they found themselves in an empty kitchen.

Cas spotted something on the floor on the other side of the table. “I think that might be why,” he said, pointing.

“Jesus, that’s Ruby,” Dean said. They made their way to the body. She was definitely dead, shot at short range with a revolver, it looked like. “What, is he turning on his own people now?”

“Lucifer demands unquestioning loyalty,” Cas mused. “You saw the way he turned on Sam.”

“Well, he’s going to learn that my loyalty isn’t so flighty,” Dean growled, readying one of the revolvers. Cas did the same, preparing for a fight.

They passed into the main part of the house, and Cas caught sight of movement in a corner and opened fire. 

“Fastest draw in the West, Cas.” Dean rolled his eyes as a fat tabby cat jumped off the windowsill, unharmed and looking for a mouse. “They definitely know we’re here now.”

* * *

Meg screamed again. Charlie tried to soothe her, but she didn’t actually know what she was doing. 

“Have you ever helped deliver a baby,” she asked Jo.

“A girl when we were in Denver had a baby, but Ma handled the birth,” Jo shrugged, "I just got blankets and boiled water.”

“I can do this,” Charlie reassured herself with a sigh. “Delivering a baby is hardly different than serving drinks, right?” She crouched next to Meg, who instantly grabbed her dress and tugged it towards her.

“You let anything happen to this baby and I will have your head, you understand?” Meg growled.

“You’re both going to be fine, Meg,” Charlie promised and crouched down between Meg’s legs. There was no sign of a baby’s head—Charlie at least knew that from animals on the farm—but Meg was in obvious pain. She howled as another spasm took over her tiny frame.

* * *

Cas dropped the spent revolver and gave the cat a quick pat as it slinked by. As he straightened up, a bullet grazed right above his head. If it had been a second later, he’d be dead. He instantly dropped to a crouch, taking cover next to a sideboard. Dean dropped next to him.

“I know you’re here,” a voice called out. It wasn’t Lucifer, so it must be one of his men. A shadow fell over the window, as the man they’d known as Ruby’s husband stepped through. Dean fired first, a shot made contact with the outlaw’s stomach, blood spurting out as he grabbed at his wound. 

They emptied their revolvers into him, but he kept advancing, grimacing through his obvious pain. He reached out menacingly, his own weapon forgotten as he took shot after shot. Dean emptied one final shot in him, and he fell backwards, dead as a doornail.

“Where does Lucifer get these guys?” Dean asked, kicking the body as they passed.

The Giles’ had built themselves one hell of a homestead, and Dean and Cas found themselves in one of several bedrooms. Dean looked to the bed longingly, and not because he wanted to roll around in it with Cas. If only they could have a house together, like this. Dean still didn’t want to be a farmer, but out here on the frontier, no one would care if he and Cas shared a bed.

“There’s no one in here,” Cas announced, and they made to leave the room, when Cas was suddenly tackled to the ground. Dean couldn’t fire a shot as he might have hit Cas, too, so he could only watch Cas and the man—still not Lucifer—wrestle on the ground.

From the pile on the floor, a shot rang out, and the two men stilled.

“Cas!” Dean cried, crouching next to him.

“Get him off me,” Cas mumbled. Dean moved aside the immobile body on top of Cas, to find his lover bleeding beneath him. “It’s not mine!”

The body of Alistair was bleeding from a wound on his neck, where Cas had shot him clean through the head. Dean held out a hand and helped Cas up, pulling him closely and breathing deeply into him. “Don’t scare me like that again,” he breathed.

“I promise,” Cas chuckled.

They left the bedroom, stepping into the large parlor again, when a flash of red caught Dean’s eye. He and Cas both raised their weapons, but Dean realized it was a woman.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” she sneered.

“Are you going to shoot us?” Cas asked with a shrug.

“I don’t have a gun. I do have a knife, though, and I’d love nothing more than to slice up your pretty faces.” She brandished the weapon; it twinkled in the dimming light.

“I think,” Dean drawled. “If you tried that, we’d probably forget you were a woman and shoot you anyway.”

Beside him, Cas nodded in agreement, raising his weapon threateningly.

Suddenly, she made a dash towards the front door. They didn’t pursue, as she wasn’t an immediate danger. A woman like that would turn up eventually, if she didn’t find herself a husband and settle down.

The sound of hoofbeats signaled her departure and they continued their search.

* * *

“You have to hurry,” Amelia pleaded, as Benny continued to saw through flesh and bone.

“With all due respect, ma’am, it is a bit sensitive of a task,” Benny drawled.

Amelia put her hand underneath Sam’s nose; the barest hint of his breath warmed her hand. She breathed a sigh of relief. “He’s just asleep.”

“It’s the pain, dear,” Ellen reassured her.

“Bobby!” Benny cried out. “I need you to come here.”

Amelia looked down; there was so much blood. Her heart fell as she reached to check his breath again.

* * *

Meg pushed again, breathing through the pain. Her child depended on it.

“Is there supposed to be this much blood?” Charlie asked Jo, as they crouched between Meg’s legs.

“How am I supposed to know?” Jo asked.

If Meg hadn’t been so distracted by her pain, she would have throttled them both. The pain was so great that she screamed again.

“Can I help?” a new, soft voice said from the door of the tent.

“Please,” Charlie’s voice said. “Wait, who are you?”

“Cordelia Walker,” she answered. She joined the two worthless, inept women on the ground in front of Meg. She reached between Meg’s skirts with a gentle hand. “When you feel the need to push again, push with all your might.”

“Thank God—someone who knows what they’re doing,” Charlie sighed.

“My ma was a midwife,” Cordelia explained. 

Another wave of pain came over Meg, and she pushed and pushed and pushed.

“Harder,” Cordelia commanded in her gentle way. Meg tried to comply, but she was so exhausted. “Come on, you can do it! Your baby needs you to.”

Meg rallied her strength and pushed and then, as if from somewhere far away, there was the sound of a baby crying.

“It’s a boy,” Charlie announced happily. The crying of the baby grew louder and stronger, and Meg was filled with such joy that she began to cry herself.

* * *

“Hold that there,” Benny ordered. “I’ll sew it up.”

“What?!” Amelia cried in surprise, dropping her hand.

“He’s done,” Ellen explained, a smile on her face.

It took ages for Benny and Bobby to finish stitching the skin flaps to the stump. Amelia stroked his hair and watched his breathing strengthen. Even as Benny declared it finished and left to wash the blood off his hands, Amelia stayed there until Sam’s eyes fluttered open.

“Amelia,” he breathed. “I’m still here.”

“You’re still here,” she reassured him, kissing his precious forehead.

* * *

The house was definitely empty; Lucifer was nowhere to be seen.

“He can’t have left,” Dean remarked. “Where in the hell would he go?”

Cas tilted his head towards the window. There were still three buildings they hadn’t checked. “He wouldn’t fit in the chicken coup, and the smokehouse would stink.” He eyed the outhouse curiously. “He wouldn’t.”

“I would,” Dean chuckled.

They carefully made their way to the back of the house, going around from the front rather than using the backdoor, to maintain the element of surprise. Cas swung one of the rifles forward and fired a shot into the outhouse. Dean rushed ahead, swinging open the door, only to find it empty. He looked towards Cas to give a shake of his head, but, as he moved away from the outhouse, Lucifer stepped out from behind it, a revolver pointed directly at him.

“Not a muscle, Marshal, or Dean gets it,” Lucifer sneered, stepping closer to Dean and waving the gun threateningly.

“Cas! Shoot him!” Dean pleaded.

“What if I miss?” Cas called back. “He’ll shoot you dead.”

“Do it anyway!” Dean shouted. “When do you miss?”

“Now’s not the time to find out.”

“How’s Sammy?” Lucifer drawled.

“Better than you’ll be after we’re done with you,” Dean bluffed.

“I had a vision,” Lucifer began. “I dreamed of a world where a man could choose what he wanted to be, rather than be dictated to by a worthless government.”

“You dreamt of people being property, you piece of shit,” Cas countered, narrowing his eyes dangerously. “Your idea of freedom was only for yourself.”

Dean reached his hand slowly into his pocket, where his last loaded revolver was tucked. As long as Lucifer was distracted, he might not notice the movement.

“Isn’t that what this great country was founded on, Marshal? Personal freedom? Isn’t that what you were doing when you shot your way through the frontier? And, you, the other Winchester, when you abandoned your father’s farm, not once, but twice? A real son would have stayed behind and tended to his father’s dream.”

“You have no right to talk about my father, you son of a bitch. You killed my father.”

“And he cried like a child,” Lucifer scoffed. “Your ma was more of a man than he was.”

Dean pulled the gun out of his pocket and fired once into Lucifer. “That’s for my pa,” he growled. The bullet had gone straight through Lucifer’s shoulder, lodging itself into the house; he faltered but lunged towards Dean. Dean fired another bullet; it tore a hole through Lucifer’s left thigh. “That’s for Sammy.”

Lucifer raised his revolver, despite the two wounds slowing him down. Dean fired again, but missed. Lucifer was about to fire, when Cas appeared behind him, plunging his knife into Lucifer’s chest. Cas twisted the knife, and Lucifer crumpled to the ground.

They stood over his body as it twitched with the final moments of life. Dean emptied his chamber into Lucifer just to be certain.

“Let the buzzards take him,” Dean growled.

* * *

Dean was silent on the ride back to the camp. Lucifer and his cohorts were taken care of, but Sam’s life was still in the balance. There were no words to comfort Dean, so Cas didn’t talk either, he just coaxed his horse on as fast as he could. There would be time for talking later, if Dean needed that, no matter how things ended.

When they could see the camp in the distance, smoke from the fire billowing up into the deepening sky, Dean stopped his horse. Cas slowed to a halt beside him.

“I can’t go on, Cas. What if?”

Cas looked ahead. “I don’t think you have to.” He gestured to where a figure was running out to meet them, Cas put his horse to moving again, and road towards the figure. It was Amelia.

“Dean! Dean!” she shouted. “He’s askin’ to see you.”

Dean breathed an audible sigh of relief. “He’s alive?”

“He made it through the amputation just fine. He’s goin’ to make it.”

“Whoo!” Dean whooped with joy as he leaped off his horse and ran into the camp. “Sammy! It’s done!”

As Dean followed Amelia towards the wagon, Charlie approached Cas. “I suppose Meg would like to see you, Marshal.”

Cas turned to her in surprise, then realization dawned on him at her small smile, and he rushed after her.

“Meg?” he asked, as he reached one of the tents. She was inside, tucked into a pile of blankets, and in her arms was—“The baby?”

“Come and meet your son,” she said, holding the bundle in her arms out for him to see.

“A boy?” he murmured, crouching next to her to see his little, wrinkled face. “I knew you shouldn’t have come.”

“Shut up,” she snarled, but there was little heat to it.

“Does he have a name?” Cas asked, letting the little one grasp onto one of his fingers. He’d never seen anything that tiny.

“I was thinking we should name him after his father.”

“Who’s his father?” Cas asked, receiving a slap on his arm for his joke. “No child should be saddled with a name like Castiel.”

“How ‘bout James, then? James Dean Milton—both his fathers. I think it suits him.”

Cas marveled at his perfect little face, his eyes scrunched closed.

“Can I hold him?”

“He’s your son,” Meg said. She held the baby out for Cas to take. He was well swaddled, so it wasn’t difficult to cradle him close to Cas’s chest. 

Cas was filled with so many emotions, he couldn’t contain them. A tear dropped from his eye and landed on the baby’s sweet face. Cas knew then that he wouldn’t ever let his child go, but he could never love Meg, not when his whole heart belonged to Dean.

He stepped out of the tent, the baby still in his arms.

“Sam’s going to be just fine,” Dean said, rushing over with a beaming face. “Hey, what’s that?”

“Meg had the baby,” Cas said, holding the bundle close to him.

“And I thought we had an exciting time. Cas, I’ll understand if you want to—” Dean began, but Cas cut him off.

“Meg named him James Dean Milton after his two pas.”

Dean reached out to stroke the baby’s swaddling.

“Cas, are you sure?” he asked, his voice full of gentleness and surprise.

“It’s unconventional, sure,” Cas shrugged, “but no one needs to know that. Meg understands. Dean, meet our son.”

Dean put his head on Cas’s shoulder and sighed softly, looking into the face of new life.

The sun was just beginning to set, and Cas and Dean looked out to where it was starting to disappear into the vast plains. The west was opportunity and hope as much as it was lawlessness and danger. 

On that day, hope won.

* * *

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! I hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> The last chapter is a glossary/history lesson.


	11. Glossary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find a word you don't know the meaning of, you can leave a comment on this chapter and I'll add it to the glossary for you.

Reb, rebel, Johnny Reb: confederate soldier

Bushwacker: confederate guerilla fighters

Jayhawker: union guerilla

Virginia quick-step: diarrhea

Veal: raw recruit

Johnny-come-lately: upstart

Border ruffians: Missourians who crossed into Kansas in order to force it to become a “slave state”

Pottawattomie Creek: The sight of John Brown’s execution of pro-slavery Missourians in May 1856

Osceola: A town in Missouri that was sacked and burned by jawhawkers in September, 1861

Remittance man: a man, usually the black sheep of a well-to-do family, sent away (usually from Great Britain to one of its colonies) and supported by payments from his family (a remittance) on the understanding that he will stay away.

Knocked into a cocked hat: to beat up

Switchel: a proto-sports drink made from water, sugar, vinegar and ginger. 

Skirimish/skirmish line: troops who fight ahead of the line. This helps prevent ambushes and provides knowledge of where the enemy is. They also harass the enemy lines, and try to take out artillery and officers. It first came into use during the Napoleonic wars of the early 19th century, and makes up a lot of the fighting in today’s military.

Grey backs: lice (also confederate soldiers)

Buggery: unnatural sexual acts, usually referring to sex between men.

Adventuress: wild woman or prostitute

Travois: a sled pulled by a horse or dog, used to carry things.

* * *

Slavery divided the United States almost perfectly in half; northern states outlawed slavery while the wealthy and politically active plantation owners of the south strongly supported maintaining slavery. With rapid population and industrial growth of the north and expansion west, the US faced a challenge. The South was losing political power. When the states of Maine and Missouri were seeking statehood, the question of slavery was a major political issue. If new states were not slave states, then the South would see an even greater loss of political power. The Missouri Compromise of 1820 permitted Maine to enter the union as a Free state on the condition that Missouri be a slave state, thus maintaining the balance of power, but established a line through the Louisiana Territory that meant any new state south of Missouri would be admitted as a slave state and any state above that line—except for Missouri itself—would be free. In 1854, the Kansas Nebraska Act challenged the situation further by repealing the Missouri Compromise and allowing new territories to decide for themselves whether they would be slave or free. The territory of Kansas was flooded with pro-slavery settlers hoping to turn the territory into a slave state while abolitionists headed there to keep the territory free, leading to hostilities between the two sides, known as Bleeding Kansas. 

The divide between the north and south deepened as the 1860 presidential election neared. The Democratic party of the time had split loyalty when the Democratic northern president Buchanan showed pro-slavery leanings. The newly formed Republican Party was then able to find wide support for their presidential candidate, Abraham Lincoln. Lincoln was elected President with no support from the Southern states at all. This marked a complete political divide between the North and South and showed that the south had truly lost their political power. As a result, seven slave-holding southern states made the decision to secede from the Union and form the Confederacy. The North, believed the Union needed to be preserved.

War seemed inevitable.

In April of 1861, the first battles began at Fort Sumter in South Carolina, leading to the outbreak of war. For the next four years, the North and South fought over keeping the union together. In bordering states, such as Maryland, Missouri and Kentucky, the decision to stay politically and economically tied to the north versus the desire to maintain slavery divided loyalty. Within the same families, loyalties could be divided. The civil war put brother against brother. North against South. Free states against slave states. 

The first major battle of the Civil war was the first Battle of Bull Run (Manassas) and was a Confederate victory, leading to many early southern success. After the Battle of Antietam in September of 1862, which was a strategic Union victory and the bloodiest single day of battle, Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation, freeing all enslaved people in the Confederacy. For the first time, the war was intrinsically tied to freedom, rather than to preserving the union. 

The turning point of the war was the Battle of Gettysburg in July, 1863. The point at which the advance known as Pickett’s Charge got through the Union line on Cemetery Ridge is known as the “High Point of the Confederacy,” marking both the furthest north their attempted invasion went and their best chance at success. Their loss at the battle ended that attempt and changed the war.

The union eventually won by engaging in a war of attrition. The north had a larger population, a wealthier population, and more industry, and they could replace men and supplies better than the south could. By wearing out their enemy, they defeated them.


End file.
